Damned
by Meowmers
Summary: "That's what I like about you," He told her, his fingers pressed against her pulse, "You don't believe in fairytales," His thumb traced the curve of her jaw and she watched his eyes flash red for a single, dream-like moment, "Do you believe in nightmares?" Tomione.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: "That's what I like about you," He told her, his fingers pressed against her pulse, "You don't believe in fairytales," His thumb traced the curve of her jaw and she watched his eyes flash red for a single, dream-like moment, "Do you believe in nightmares?" Tomione.**

Hermione's parents died two weeks before Christmas. Car accident. And the train ticket that bought her a trip from Brighton to London, carefully tucked away in her top dresser drawer, saw her dressed in black to an empty house to sort out a funeral, rather than to her parent's happy smiles and waiting arms and Christmas cheer.

It was a horrible Christmas, that year.

She put off dealing with her parents home which she now owned—rent free, passed down from her mother's mother, to her mother, now to her—put off moving back to the bustling city of London and the childhood memories it brought, put off her plans of university. She was happier to forget it, happier to shut herself away in her little Brighton flat with her two best friends, working in an office that she hated, paying rent that was too high and spending her days coping with the death of her only family by sitting at the seaside because at least that looked nothing like London, nothing like all the little things that reminded her of her parents.

"They're in a better place now," Harry told her once, because while he was certainly no saint he had always been the most religious of the three of them. Hermione wanted to believe him, wanted to pretend that there was a place where they would go, where her parents watched over her, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't.

"I know," She told him instead of arguing, because she was too tired to argue. She was too tired of everything.

She comforted herself by reading, in the months that followed. Reading classics, modern fiction, poetry, academic journals, every moment spent outside of work or just staring at the sea as if it would make her forget, she read. It wasn't altogether unusual, not to her nor her friends nor her colleagues, because she often read anyway, but her old battered copies of dearly loved novels weren't enough to distract her anymore.

It was the subject matter that, inevitably, began to worry people.

"Hermione," Harry and Ron sat her down one evening, brows puckered, Ron was picking at the loose threads on his jumper and Harry was running his hand through his hair again and again and again, "We understand you're going through a lot right now, but we're a bit worried about…" weakly he gestured to the book sitting on the kitchen counter.

She wanted to roll her eyes, to scoff and say they were overreacting, but truthfully she had expected this reaction when she bought the book. "Calm down," She told them, directing most of the statement toward Harry because he was running his hand through his hair again, "I'm not worshipping the devil."

"You have a book that's literally called 'The Satanic Bible,' but you're not worshipping the devil?" Ron griped, his eyes jumping from her, to the book, back to her.

"It's not really a bible," She explained, "And it's not really satanic, He just uses the idea and the name of satan as an antithesis of god and organized religion, he—just, please stop worrying." She turned away from their faces pinched with worry to eye her pasta on the stove, "I just find it interesting."

"Alright," Harry agreed carefully, "Then could you maybe just…not read it in public?"

Hermione scoffed, "I will read it wherever I please."

"Hermione—" Ron groaned, but as she turned her eyes to glower at the two of them she saw Harry hit Ron in the stomach. They looked between each other, like they were struggling to bring something up, and she cautiously turned toward them.

"What?" She asked, equal parts suspicion and trepidation.

"We were thinking," Harry started, "About you, and everything—"

"With your parents and all—" Ron added, then winced, as if the very subject of her parents was too sensitive and issue to breech. Given the way she usually reacted to the mention of her parents, it was a fair response on his part.

"And you know, you always said that one day you wanted to—well, we thought—"

"We should all move to London!" Ron finally blurted out, throwing his hands up in some sort of celebratory gesture. Hermione stared incredulously between the two of them.

"That's ridiculous," She said, when both of them failed to elaborate, "Why would we move to London? I don't want to move to London."

"Well, we know you tend to deal with things better if you have a distraction," Harry explained, "And we know you've been planning on going to university so you don't have to work in an office job forever—"

"Or at least work in an office job that you like—" Ron corrected.

"And student loans would cover tuition—"

"But rent would be—"

"So if we stayed at your parents house—"

"Then you can deal with their death and get your degree at the same time! Two in one!"

Their words overlapped, their message clumsy and hard to decipher when they were both speaking over each other, but she understood the gist of it, understood that what they said was out of concern and a desperate attempt to help her, but she felt something like anger build up in her chest regardless.

"Are you out of your minds?" She snapped, turning fully away from the stove and placing one hand on her hip, "I don't want to live in my dead parents house and attend university. That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard—"

"It's not the stupidest idea you've _ever_ heard—" Ron began to disagree, but she cut him off.

"I am dealing just fine," She insisted sharply, "As fine as to be expected of someone who just lost both her parents in a night, just before Christmas."

"Hermione, it's been three months and you still refuse to talk about it," Harry insisted gently, "You can't just…avoid it forever." When he approached her, she couldn't find it in herself to be truly angry at him, not when he was looking at her with wide, green eyes, carefully reaching for her as if she might break. His hand met her shoulder, and she still hadn't found it within herself to snap back or pull away. "I know what it's like to lose your parents," He said quietly, "And you can't just refuse to face it."

"You just told me to distract myself with University," She pointed out.

"Well, I meant," He corrected himself, taking a pause to choose his words, "That we don't expect you to just…drown in the memories of your parents. University would be a good…outlet," He squeezed her shoulder, "And we'll be there. They always need teachers in London, so I'll get a job, and Ron'll find a job somewhere."

Hermione felt something well in her throat, speaking so candidly about her parents death, so she turned away form him and back to her pasta on the stove. "I don't want to." She told him.

But she thought about it, and they went in the end.

—

By August of that year, Hermione had improved quite a bit, and when she packed up her things and prepared to travel back to London, to the house that hadn't been touched since December of the previous year, she was even ready to face it alone for a week before Harry and Ron joined her. They helped her pack, helped her carry her things into the boot of the car, even rode back to London with her to help her unpack in the house, help her settle in, even though they wouldn't be moving until the following week.

"You don't have to move with me, you know," She had told them, months ago, when she first came around to the idea, "You don't have to change your lives for me."

"I always wanted to live in London," Ron shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face,, "This is for me, not you. Maybe it's about time you get over yourself."

She appreciated the flippancy, appreciated the fact that they didn't push it, didn't try and make her talk about it, and that they didn't question her decision when she said she wanted to move to London a week before they did. The truth of the matter was she wasn't sure how she would react when she moved back home, and she didn't really want them to see her reaction until she knew what to expect.

The truth of the matter was, the more she thought about it and the closer they got to moving, the less she wanted them to go with her. She felt somewhat territorial over her childhood home, over the memories it held. The thought of sharing it with anyone other than her parents made her feel uneasy, irritable. It was a feeling she hoped would fade with the week she spent on her own, because as odd as she felt about sharing her home with them, she truly did like living with Harry and Ron. She didn't want them to stay behind, she just also didn't want to have them stay in her house.

She hoped that would go away.

"I see you brought your devil worshipping shit with you," Ron said dryly when he tore open the box containing some of her books. That book had become well read, thoroughly annotated, and Ron and Harry never seemed to completely reconcile themselves with the fact that she actually found it fascinating. She laughed, rolled her eyes, and plucked the book from his hand.

"Yes, I'm just rereading the part about human sacrifice," She joked, placing it on the living room table. "I'm debating whether it should be you or Harry."

"Definitely Ron!" Harry piped up from the kitchen where he was setting Crookshanks's carrier on the ground, letting him out. Immediately Crookshanks started pawing at the back screen door, so Hermione hurried over to let him out. Harry threw a grin over his shoulder from where he could see Ron in the doorway, "Virgin blood and all that."

"Oi shut the hell up!" Ron snapped, his cheeks flaring, "I'm not—"

"Right, because you fucked _Lavender Brown_ ," Harry drawled disbelievingly, "She'd be out of her mind to settle for you—"

"You know, I think you've been spending too much time with that prat Malfoy—"

"Stop!" Hermione snapped, but without any real anger. She rolled her eyes, a smile playing on her lips, and she started toward the door to get the last box out of the car, "Do not start with that _again_ ,"

"Mind if we look around?" Harry called after her, seemingly content to drop the pseudo-argument him and Ron had been in the middle of. She wanted to say no, wanted to tell him to keep his nose out of her stuff, but she reminded herself that this would be their home soon, too.

"Knock yourself out!" She called over her shoulder instead, stepping barefoot out onto the warm pavement and making her way to the car. It was hot, the last month of summer and the city seemed to hold onto the heat with every ounce of its strength, and she could already feel the sweat collecting at the back of her neck and at her forehead. She piled her curls on top of her head in a bun, before hoisting the last box into her arms out of the back seat, kicking the door closed as she made her way back to the front door.

It was a quiet street, though close to the city, only about a five minute walk from the nearest tube station. She paused on her trek toward the open front door to peer up at the house, and just the sight of it looming over her in the thick summer heat made her feel uneasy, overwhelmed by the memory of it, the knowledge that everything was different now.

She shook her head, cleared her throat, and entered the house.

"Mione!" Ron called when she entered, and he waved something over his head. At first she thought it was a piece of cardboard, or a sign, or part of a box. "You ever used this before?"

She set the box down, padded over to where Ron was knelt in front of the cupboard under the stairs rifling through the boxes of things that had remained untouched since she was a child, probably before then. "What is it?" She asked, taking it from his hands. She recognized it before he answered, but let him answer it anyway.

"Ouija board," He told her, "One of those things you talk to the dead with," Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes at the notion and handing it back to him, rising to her feet and returning to her box on the floor. Once it was hoisted in her arms, she started toward the stairs, planning to drop it off in her bedroom.

"No, I haven't used it," She said, "A bunch of bollocks, anyway."

"You could use it to talk to your Dark Lord!" He called after her, his loud laughter seemed to follow her up the stairs. When she pushed open the door to her bedroom—her old bedroom, the one she always stayed in when she visited home—she felt her chest tighten. How many nights did they tuck her into bed here, how many times did her mother sit on that bed with her and read her a story or talk to her about her studies or lecture her for forgetting to brush her teeth? How many times did her father check her closet for monsters as a child or lecture her on the mess she left all across her floor? He nails dug into the cardboard of the box in her arms.

"What's that arsehole laughing about?" Harry said from behind her, and she jumped, nearly dropping everything on the floor. Harry laughed, catching teh box before she dropped it, taking it from her and setting it on her bed, "Sorry," He apologized for scaring her.

"He found a Ouija board," She answered, ignoring his apology because it was her fault for getting so wrapped up in her thoughts. Harry's eyebrows jumped up high on his forehead.

"A Ouija board?" He asked incredulously, "You own a Ouija board?"

"I don't know," She laughed, stepping next to him to open up the box, "He found it under the stairs. My family hasn't touched any of that for ages."

"That's hilarious," Harry commented, a bit dryly, "Maybe you can go over all your annotations with the author," She narrowed her eyes, knowing exactly what he was referring to without even needing him to elaborate.

"You are both so irritating," She told him flatly, and he laughed loudly in response as he turned toward her door, likely planning on joining Ron, "The devil didn't write it!" She called after him, "The devil doesn't exist!"

"Agree to disagree!" Harry called back, already out of sight. She sighed, turning back to glance around he room. The ache remained, but she didn't want to dwell on it now, not while her friends were downstairs rummaging through her house. She moved toward the window, pulled the curtains open to allow the sunlight in, opening up the window to try and allow the breeze in as well.

When she returned downstairs, Ron and Harry had moved on to the liquor cabinet in the kitchen.

"Oi, Hermione!" Ron bellowed, waving a large bottle of wine over his head as Harry shuffled through the spirits, "What do you say we celebrate a little, huh?"

"Celebrate what, Ron?" She asked, her hands on her hips as she eyed the both of them.

"Rent free living in London!" Harry answered, finally deciding on withdrawing a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and turning to Hermione with a grin.

"Don't you two need to drive back?" She asked.

"We can get a train," Harry said dismissively, "We got most of the stuff down here already, so we won't need a car coming back." He withdrew three glasses from the cabinet, holding them in one hand by the rims of the glasses and brushing past her into the living room with a grin, Ron following and dragging her behind him by the arm.

They sat in the living room, Hermione sandwiched between her boys on the couch that was truthfully only meant for two people, chatting and laughing and drinking and she was pleased to note that her home didn't feel as desolate with the two of them there. It was different, and it was different in a way that she couldn't tell if she liked, but she appreciated it just the same. Her home was already different without her parents there, even more different now that it was her and her two best friends. It was just different.

She stopped drinking after a glass of wine, fearful that if she got too drunk she would get too emotional, but Harry and Ron continued until they were suitably tipsy, cheeks flushed and laughs too loud. They drank until that wasn't enough anymore, wasn't fun enough, and in an attempt to find something to occupy their time, they decided it might be a good idea to retrieve that Ouija board from the cupboard.

Well, Ron thought it was a good idea.

"This is so stupid," Harry piped up at Hermione side while Ron retrieved the board from where he had left it, but he was laughing, seemingly at ease, "You don't mess with this shit, my friend."

"Shut up, you tosser," Ron laughed as he came back around the couch, laying the board on the table and sitting just in front of the couch to be nearer to it. He tugged on Hermione's ankle to try and sway her to sit beside him, and she only raised an eyebrow in response. "Oh, come on!" Ron griped, "It'll be fun! We're christening the house!"

"Did you just use the term 'christening' to refer to using a Ouija board?" Hermione laughed, "Don't people usually do this stuff at night, not at Four o'clock in the afternoon?"

"You two suck the fun out of everything," Ron groaned, "Come on! I've never used one of these."

"Well," Harry shrugged, sliding on the floor as well, pulling Hermione a bit harder than Ron did in order to pull her off the couch, "I'm not gonna piss on the fun."

"This is stupid," Hermione rolled her eyes. "But I'll do just about anything to shut you up."

"Anything?" Ron waggled his eyebrows and Hermione shoved him hard enough to make him fall over.

"Isn't there a thing?" Harry asked, gesturing vaguely to the board. Ron pushed himself back up into a sitting position and looked from the board to Harry once before answering.

"A what?" He asked.

"You know, a thing?" Harry answered vaguely, making the shape of a triangle with his fingers and pointing at the board, "A thing to do the—the thing—"

"What?" Ron asked again, this time a bit harsher, as if he thought Harry was being an idiot.

"The planchette," Hermione clarified. Ron's face screwed up in confusion.

"The _what_ —"

"It's the thing with the hole and it does the thing!" Harry snapped, pointing at the letters on the board again, and Ron's face lit up with understanding.

"Oh!" He started with a grin, setting his hand on Hermione's head and using her to push himself to his feet. "Of course you know what it's called," He joked as she smacked him in the leg, "Our little satanist."

"I'm not a satanist!" She snapped.

"Yeah maybe she's _actually_ the devil," Harry joked, his words somewhat slurred together, "This is her plan to trick us into something so she can drag us into hell."

"Neither of you need me to drag you into hell, you will get there all on your own," Hermione rolled her eyes, stretching her legs out under the table and crossing her arm as Ron rifled through the space under the stairs to try and find the planchette.

"Ooh!" Harry crowed, "That's a _good_ one. I'll have to use that on Malfoy."

"Oh, _right_ , let's just talk about _Malfoy_ again—" Ron griped form behind them.

"Shut up, you prick!" Harry called back with a grin, slinging his arm around Hermione's shoulders. Quietly, so that only she would hear, he asked, "Are you alright?"

She was startled by the question, mostly because she had assumed in their drunkness they might've forgotten that this was the first time she had set foot in this house since she had returned to London for the funeral. But she was also a bit startled because, at the moment, she truly _did_ feel alright, didn't feel weighed down by the loss of her parents. She felt it, surely, in every moment she spent in that house without them, but she didn't feel suffocated by it like she thought she might.

So she nodded, offered a small smile to make sure he knew she meant it.

"Found the bloody thing!" Ron said, a bit louder than what was necessary, as he plopped down on the floor next to her. He held the planchette in his hand, "This is it, right?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, removing his arm from Hermione's shoulders, "So now what do we do?" Ron shrugged. "Well are there any instructions—?"

"I am not going back and going through all that shite for _instructions_ —"

"Calm down," Hermione rolled her eyes, "I'll look it up on my phone."

"I'll set the mood!" Harry announced, jumping up and moving toward the large windows at the front of the house and pulling the curtains shut, so that hardly any of the sunlight made its way into the room.

"For someone who said not to mess with this stuff, you sure seem excited," Hermione commented dryly, pulling up an article online on how to start the game. She thought it was all rather silly, but she had long since gotten used to going along with Harry and Ron's stupid ideas, because god knows if she didn't they would get themselves into trouble. Harry shrugged in the dim light of the room as he sat beside her once more.

"Never done one before," He commented, "Gotta do it at least once, right?"

"Maybe we can talk to your parents, Mione," Ron said at her other side, and her head snapped up to send him a furious glare. He jumped when she did, startled by the anger, and turned his eyes down to the board.

"That's not funny, Ronald." She snapped.

"Sorry," He said quickly. She hesitated for a moment, considering just stopping the game altogether before it even started. But his apology sounded genuine, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had said something stupid while drunk—it certainly wasn't the worst thing he had said while drunk—and he did look quite contrite, staring down at the board like a thoroughly scolded child.

"It's alright," She conceded after a moment, not wanting to give up the comforting distraction that her friends offered. If she had to play a stupid game—what was likely a silly attempt on their part to frighten her—in order to keep up the lighthearted atmosphere that they offered to this house, then she would play it.

She plucked the planchette from Ron's hand, setting it on the board on the 'G' as her phone instructed her, tugging them both closer to her on either side so they all sat in front of the board. They each placed a hand on the piece, while Hermione read the instructions on her phone in her other hand.

"I guess you just ask it questions," Hermione muttered, locking her phone and setting it by her side, "Who wants to ask?"

Neither Ron nor Harry said anything.

"Do you two honestly believe in this stuff?" Hermione asked, glancing between the two of them who had suddenly fallen rather quiet, considering their previous boisterous, drunken behavior.

"Well, yeah," Harry shrugged, and Ron nodded on her other side.

She rolled her eyes, "Alright, I'll start," She said, "Are there any spirits here?"

Silence, and no movement on the board.

"Do we have to say something else, to start it, or—?" Ron asked.

"No," She interrupted "We just start asking questions."

"Maybe they didn't hear," Harry offered.

With a long-suffering sigh, Hermione rolled her shoulders and asked again, "Are there any spirits here?"

Still nothing, still no movement on the board.

"Maybe they don't like the word spirits," Ron suggested, "Maybe that's derogatory—"

"Oh for god's—Is there _anything_ in this room with us."

Silence.

"This is ridiculous," Hermione sighed, ready to move her hands away from the piece when it suddenly moved, her fingers following the movement of the piece until it hovered over the word 'yes.'

Hermione turned to look at Ron, who looked just as gobsmacked as she did, before looking at Harry who burst into excited laughter.

"Holy shit—"

"Harry—" Hermione began reproachfully.

"It wasn't me, I swear!"

"Ask it another question!"

Hermione looked between them, her eyebrows coming together in annoyance, but she sighed and turned her eyes back to the planchette which remained over the word 'yes' on the board. She didn't really like this anymore, knowing that Harry or Ron were playing some sort of prank but wouldn't admit it, but she also wasn't about to pull her hand away. If she did that they would think she believed it, that she stopped because she was scared. She gritted her teeth.

"Alright, um…" She thought, shaking her head as she did, "What is your name?"

There was a brief hesitation, before the piece moved across the board, slowly, stopping on the 'm,' then the 'a,' the 'n,' and finally the 'y.'

"Many," Hermione echoed, rolling her eyes.

"Many?" Ron echoed as well.

"It has many names, I presume," Hermione sighed, "What do you prefer to be called, then?"

The piece moved quite quickly this time, decisively, and Hermione muttered the letters under her breath as it moved, committing them to memory, until it finally stopped. "Voldemort?" She snorted, turning to give Harry a look because that seemed like exactly the type of ridiculous name he would come up with.

"What?" Harry demanded, looking decidedly ill at ease. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Sounds like a storybook villain," She muttered, "Are you at least a nice—" She almost said spirit, but it didn't seem to like that term, so she said, "Whatever you are?"

The piece moved slowly, until it hovered over the word 'no.'

There was a beat of silence. "Okay," Harry said, drawing out the word, "Maybe we should put this away—"

"Oh please," Hermione scoffed, absolutely positive at this point that it must be Harry who was messing with them, if not both Harry and Ron messing with her, "Are you evil, then?" She clarified.

It moved, looked as if it was headed toward the word 'yes,' but it stopped hallway there and doubled back to the word 'no.' She wasn't sure what the point of that was, to be honest. If they were trying to scare her, one would think they would move it to 'yes.'

"Ask it why it's here," Ron suggested, at the same time that Harry said, "We should probably put this away now—"

"Why are you here?" Hermione asked, indulging Ron, watching the planchette shift about the board to spell 'you.'

"You?" Ron sneered, "What does 'you' mean?"

"Let's just—" Harry started.

"What do you want?" Hermione clarified, and despite herself she was starting to find this whole scenario rather intriguing. It was a bit early for this sort of thing—October was still a month and a half away—but the idea of it was interesting, the idea of conversing with a spirit. And it certainly was creepy, especially the way it, once again, spelled out the word 'you,' as if she was supposed to know what that meant.

"Honestly, can we put this away now?" Harry asked again, and Hermione was surprised to see that he looked genuinely unnerved by the whole thing. She couldn't find even an inkling of evidence that he was faking it. Not Harry then, she thought, it must be Ron. Turning back to him she raised an eyebrow before turning back to the planchette.

"When I was eleven, I spent the entire year reading through one book trying to memorize it, what book was it?"

"What the bloody hell kind of question is that?" Ron demanded, and she turned to him with a sort of victorious smile.

"Don't know the answer to that one, do you?" She challenged. He wrinkled his nose.

"No, I bloody well don't—what's the point of that question—"

But the planchette moved beneath their fingers, upsetting their conversation, and Hermione's smile fell with the surprise of the motion. When it hovered over the 'b,' briefly, she felt something was clutching at her chest, stilling her breath. It continued, stopping over the 'i,' back to 'b,' the 'l,' the 'e.'

"Bible?" Ron asked a bit skeptically, and Hermione couldn't breathe.

"I—" She stuttered, "I went to catholic school and the nuns were always quoting the bible at me, I wanted to be able to quote it back to—neither of you _knew_ that, though." She looked between them, feeling increasingly uneasy, that weight in her chest remaining as both boys looked at her in equal parts confusion and discomfort.

"Let's just say goodbye—" Harry started, but Ron cut him off.

"Ask it to do something, make a noise or—"

"No, that is a _bad_ idea—" Harry interrupted.

"What do you want?" Hermione asked instead, forgetting in her discomfort that she had already asked that once before. Still, it paused over three letters, y-o-u, and feeling a bit panicked she asked, "You? What is you? What does that mean? Which one of us?"

It moved quickly this time, not the slow movement it had been doing before, started at the 'h,' moved to the 'e'—

"Oh for god's sake—" Hermione finally snapped, pulling her hand away from the planchette and snatching the board up.

"Hermione!" Harry called after her as she practically charged into the kitchen, "You're not supposed to do that, you're supposed to say goodbye or—"

"Stop, Harry!" She called back, shoving the board into the bin and dropping the planchette in as well, "I'm done with this, it isn't funny, it's stupid, and I'm done!"

"But—"

"End of discussion!" She snapped,

"But I didn't do it!" Harry protested, looking to Ron.

"I didn't do it either!"

"Obviously one of you is lying," Hermione insisted, crossing her arms in the doorway of the kitchen. Harry had turned to face her when she spoke, but he turned back to Ron with an accusatory glare.

"I didn't _do_ it!" Ron insisted.

"Enough!" Hermione snapped, "We're not talking about it anymore!"

They dropped the subject, moved on, the three of them forgot about the Ouija board without any of them admitting to faking it, but they weren't quite able to work their way back to the pleasant, relaxed atmosphere as before. Hermione felt the loss of it immediately, the sudden tense atmosphere in the room, the way the house suddenly felt inundated with something dark and unsettling and she wondered if it was the grief over her parents, creeping back into her head now that the camaraderie had faded away. They ignored the shift, though, turned on the telly and watched some shit program together until the late evening.

They had to leave, eventually, still a bit tipsy but sober enough to make their way to the station and grab a train home. She hugged and kissed them goodbye at the door, with promises to see them in a week, and whereas a few hours ago she would have been happy to see them leave, happy to have her home to herself, not sharing it with anyone, now she wished they would stay.

She hadn't been able to get rid of that strange feeling in her chest all evening, the one that settled over her the moment they arrived at that house. For all the hours she spent with them, it remained like a weight against her chest, and it only seemed to get worse from the very moment she shut the door behind them. Alone, she left the telly on, sat on the couch with her knees tucked to her chest and the curtains open so the sunlight of the late evening could fill the room.

She didn't cry, which she was thankful for, she had spent quite enough time crying when her parents had died nearly a year ago. But that feeling remained, heavy on her shoulders, like everything was wrong and couldn't be fixed. She sat there in silence, hardly watching the television, lost in thought, and she could remember where her father always sat, could picture him across form her in his chair that still sat there now. He loved to watch those game shows in the evenings, trivia shows, and he would get all the questions wrong and still maintain that he should go on one. Her mother would sit beside Hermione on the couch, muttering the correct answers under her breath and laughing at her father's attempts.

Before Hermione realized it, the sun had set and the light had abandoned her, the only light in the room coming from the flickering of the TV. She stretched her legs out in front of her on the couch, wincing at the cramping of her thighs, and she took a deep breath before rising to her feet.

She moved through the kitchen, stopping at the box Harry had set on the kitchen floor containing Crookshanks's things, his food and toys that he ignored and the scratching post he also ignored for the sake of ruining all their furniture. She grabbed a cup from the cupboard, dipped it into his food, and slid open the sliding glass door. She shook the food in the cup, calling his name. "Crookshanks!" She called, remembering all the times she had done this before she moved to Brighton and brought Crooks with her—she was lucky he adapted to new environments well, although he had never quite gotten used to being an indoor cat when she wouldn't allow him outside the flat in Brighton—she shook his food and called for him again. "Crooks!"

She lowered the cup of his food with a groan when he still refused to show himself. She had forgotten how difficult it was to lure him in once he got out.

She heard something in the house, jerked around to peer over her shoulder into the dark room. She hadn't turned the lights on yet, had planned to leave them off since she as going to head upstairs to bed soon. It sounded distant, not anywhere near her, likely from upstairs. It could be nothing, she knew, something falling over, but then she thought she heard something else—a whisper or a breath or—she whirled around to face the inside of the house completely.

Nothing was there. The whisper she thought she heard was probably the wind.

Carefully, she stepped in and shut the door behind her, turning the lock and setting the cup of food on the counter. She didn't realize until that moment that she hadn't spent a night alone in years, always having Harry or Ron or her parents or _someone_ , and she chalked it up to that and the strange moment of hysteria she had with the Ouija board that made her heart pound in her chest.

She was being irrational. She needed to calm down. No one was in her house.

Still, she pulled a knife from the drawer and held it in her hand, held her phone in the other poised to dial the police if she needed to. There was no one in her house, she knew that, she kept telling herself that, but she remembered pulling open her window when she first arrived and she just kept thinking that somehow that meant her worries were valid, pictured someone climbing in and waiting for her.

She quietly crept up the stairs, switched the lights on as she went, uncaring that it would alert whoever was there—if anyone was there—that she was coming up the stairs, she just needed to be able to see. She didn't know why she had the knife, wasn't sure she would actually use it, but she kept it on her anyway just to set her at ease.

She checked her room first, the window still open. She switched her light on and glanced around, walked toward the window and shut it, careful not to accidentally call the cops as she used that hand to lock the window. She was being paranoid, she knew she was, but it didn't make her stop as she crept toward the closet and threw the door open.

Nothing except her old clothes she had left behind. She thought her parents had gotten rid of those.

She sighed, her shoulders sagging, and she knew how ridiculous she was being. She checked the other rooms without her phone poised to call the police and with the knife held loosely at her side, leaving the lights on as she went, just checking so she could prove to herself that there was nothing to worry about.

Once everything was checked, she pocketed her phone in her shorts and rubbed her forehead tiredly. "Don't go losing your mind now, Hermione," She chastised herself.

All the lights went out.

She jerked violently, her heart leaping into her throat as she glanced around in the dark. Catching her breath, calming herself a bit, she muttered a couple expletives under her breath. Had she paid the electric bill? She was certain she had paid the electric bill.

She felt her fingers curling around the knife in apprehension and she couldn't even stop it, couldn't stop the fear welling up in her throat. She slowly made her way down the stairs, intent on getting her keys and just getting the fuck out of her house and anywhere else, anywhere out of this house that for some reason terrified her. There was a logical explanation for this she knew. No one was in her house, the noise she heard was in her head, something hadn't been communicated right with the electric company and that was why the lights went out, the Ouija board was a stupid prank that Ron and Harry didn't want to admit to because they feared facing her anger. She was grieving. She was afraid of being alone and she was _grieving,_ she didn't need to be afraid, nothing was wrong—

She reached the bottom of the stairs and it was so dark she couldn't see anything except for silhouettes. She reached for the place they always hung their keys when she lived there and swore under her breath when she didn't feel them there, recalling tha tHarry drove there and probably just set the keys down whoever he first set a box down. She lifted her phone out of her pocket and used the flashlight to make sure she wouldn't trip over anything, moving the light around the room so that she could search any flat surfaces for the keys.

She reached the kitchen, shined her light on the counter to her right, and it felt like her blood turned to ice.

The keys were there, on the edge of the counter, but what caught her attention were the ripped pieces of the Ouija board scattered across the counter. She remembered stopping the game, the unease she felt when the piece started spelling out what she was certain would be her name, she had dumped the board into the trash and left it there, and it had still been there when Harry and Ron left. Now, the pieces were ripped out of the board, torn out somehow by someone, and they spelled her name on the counter. _Hermione_ , in a jagged line of torn and worn letters.

She felt hands on her shoulders, heavy and startling, but the feeling of them was gone the moment she whirled around. She dropped the knife on accident, her phone clutched in her hand to shine the light in front of her and all she saw was blood. Blood on the floor and on the screen door and she saw the bloody matted fur of her cat hanging in front of the closed screen door and she _screamed_.

She grabbed the keys and ran, stepping on the knife on the floor with her bare foot on accident but not slowing down, hurrying out the front door and unlocking her car, getting in and slamming the door shut, locking it and checking the back seat and the boot once she was safely inside to make sure no one else was there. Sitting down in the backseat, she turned her flashlight off and dialed 9-9-9 with shaking fingers. Jesus _Christ_ , someone was in her house, someone had _killed_ —

She dissolved into panicked tears the moment the operator answered the phone, barely able to choke out that someone was in her house and they killed her cat and _no_ , she didn't see them, _no_ , she isn't in the house, please, _please_ hurry. They stayed on the line with her, trying to clam her down, but Hermione thoughts were already running away with themselves, telling her that coming back to London was a mistake, all of this was a mistake, she was an idiot, she was—

Her foot hurt like hell, and she hoisted it up in her lap to examine the wound. It wasn't deep, she had barely caught the edge of the knife on her foot as she scrambled away, but it still bled quiet a lot and it had stained the floor of her backseat where her foot had been resting.

When she lifted her eyes from her foot, gradually calming down and responding to the operator's questions, she saw that the TV had turned back on. She could see it through the window where she was sat in the back seat of her car, so she crawled forward into the drivers seat to see the upstairs light had turned on as well. The electricity was back.

And her bedroom window was open.

When the police arrived, Hermione threw herself out of her car and hurried toward the two police cars, ignoring the wound on her foot, ignoring the bloody footprint she left along the pavement, and she reached the flashing cop car before they even got out of the car.

"Ma'am!" The officer climbing out of the drivers seat huffed in surprise when Hermione went barreling into him, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," She said breathlessly, panicked, "There's someone inside, they—they killed my cat—in—in the kitchen—"

"Alright," He soothed, turning to the other officer in the car as well as the ones climbing out of the second cop car, "McLaggen!" He barked, "Stay with the girl," He turned back to her and assured her gently, "Don't worry, you're going to be fine, we'll go in and make sure it's safe."

She nodded, allowed him to turn her into the arms of the other officer—McLaggen—who offered her a wide smile as the other three officers went in. She watched, her eyes wide and her breath shaky. The officer at her side patted her back and left his hand there as a gesture of comfort.

"It'll be okay," He assured her. She didn't quite see the necessity of the statement—it wouldn't be okay, she would be safe for the time being, but the fact remained that someone got in her house and killed her _cat_ , so she didn't really think that qualified as 'okay'—but she just nodded in agreement.

"Name's McLaggen, by the way," He told her. She turned to meet his eyes, confused at the introduction.

"Right." She agreed. She had heard the other officer call him that.

"Cormac McLaggen." He clarified.

She hesitated. "Hermione Granger." She introduced herself blankly, wondering if he was trying to distract her or calm her, his hand was still at her back for comfort and she had her arms wrapped around her waist. She noticed his eyes dip down in what she thought at first was in order to make sure she was uninjured, but due to his complete ignorance of the wound on her foot—which was still bleeding—she figured he was most likely just looking at her bare legs.

Not comfort, then.

She was getting ready to tell him to get his hand off of her back and cease from speaking to her when one of the officers emerged from the house, approaching the pair of them with a strange look on his face. His brow was furrowed, but he was lacking the stern, serious expression that he had a moment ago when he passed her over toe McLaggen. He looked confused now, concerned.

"Uh—Miss, what was your name?" He asked first as he approached her.

"Hermione Granger," She told him, "Did you find them?"

He cast a glance at McLaggen, one that held too much judgmental concern for her to feel comfortable with the exchange. "Miss Granger," He said, meeting her eyes again, "What did you say you saw in there?"

Hermione hesitated. "My…my cat…" She stuttered, confused at the expression on his face. Hadn't he seen it? Shouldn't he know what was in there? "My cat is _dead_."

That look passed between McLaggen and the unnamed officer, and she felt herself getting more and more frustrated with it. "Miss Granger," The officer in front of her said slowly, "I'm very sorry to hear that. Did your cat die in the house—" She shoved past him, ignoring the call of her name and the pain in her foot, hurrying into the kitchen.

Nothing was there. No blood, no torn pieces of the Ouija board. Her knife had fallen to the floor, and it remained where she had left it, but everything else was exactly the same as the way it was before the power went out. She moved to the bin, pulled the Ouija board out only to see that it was perfectly intact, nothing torn out, all the letters exactly where they should be.

Then she heard a meow—more like a yowl, really—and she turned to see Crookshanks pacing impatiently outside the screen door. She gasped out his name, sobbed as she moved to the door and unlocked it, slid it open so she could scoop up the irritated feline in her arms and she refused to let go even as he squirmed to try and get away. She buried her face in his fur, sniffling, crying, thankful that none of it was real but terrified because _how_ could it not be real? She had _seen_ it, how could it not be real?

She turned and saw the two police officers watching her, joined now by the other two—a man and a woman she hadn't spoken to—watching her carefully. Crookshanks briefly stilled in her arms when he noticed them.

"Miss Granger?" The older officer whom she had spoken to outside said gently, prompting an explanation.

"I'm—I'm so sorry," She said, "I—I suppose…" She took a deep, calming breath, trying to find her words, anything to get them to stop looking at her like she was crazy, "I just lost my parents," She said, hoping the grieving excuse would stop them from assuming she was playing a prank or losing her goddamn mind, anything to keep them from dragging her away to a mental hospital or— "This is my first time staying in the house alone and I think…I freaked myself out."

The older policeman frowned, but it wasn't disbelieving, it seemed like more of an understanding expression. She avoided their eyes, bring her face in Crookshanks fur when he started squirming again. "Are you going to be alright?" He asked her.

"Yes, I—" She set Crookshanks down and he bolted away, dashing through the police offers' legs and hiding under the couch. "I'm so sorry for wasting your time,"

"We just want to know you're alright," The woman piped up, eyeing her with concern. Hermione nodded stiffly.

"I'll walk you out," She said instead of assuring them, because as much as she wanted them to stop looking at her like she was about to have a mental breakdown, she couldn't find the words to set them at ease. She had seen the kitchen, the blood, her name on the counter. She had _seen_ it.

"Are you sure you're alright?" The older policeman insisted once she had ushered them outside. She nodded again, offering a terse smile.

"I'm—my friends will be living with me soon, I just—" She shook her head and lied, "I'm alright. I'm sorry for the false alarm."

"It can be hard to lose family." He said comfortingly. It seemed like he was waiting for her to say something, but she didn't, so after a moment of silence he nodded and patted her once on the shoulder. "Don't be afraid to call if something happens."

She thought they were being awfully considerate considering she could be a prankster, for all they knew. She must look like a right mess for them to believe this had been a genuine mistake. He gestured down to her foot, "Is that going to be okay—?"

"Fine," She assured him quickly, robotically, "It's just a scratch."

"Alright." He nodded, "We'll get going then. Have a good night."

He turned away, started toward the police cars as the others followed him. McLaggen hovered for a moment before he reached out for her, a hand at her arm in what she couldn't tell was supposed to be friendly or flirtations. When she caught sight of his smile she figured flirtatious was a safe bet. He handed her a slip of paper, and scrawled on it was his name and a series of numbers. She gritted her teeth, raising her eyes back up to meet his and not even attempting to disguise her annoyance. "Just give me a call if you get scared alone," He told her, and it might've been sweet if it weren't for the rather suggestive glint in his eye when he added, "Or if you need anything."

"Thank you." She seethed, and his grin grew even wider before he finally released her arm and sauntered away. She wasn't sure it was entirely appropriate to be picking up women on call as a policeman, and his partner didn't seem to think so either as he thwacked him upside the head when McLaggen reached them. She waited for them to drive away, waving at the door.

Then she grabbed the throw blanket off the couch, quickly retrieved the first-aid kit from the kitchen, swept up Crookshanks and the cup of food on the counter and hurried out to the car, struggling with getting the door open and dumping all of her things in, ignoring Crookshanks meow of protest as she slammed the door shut behind her.

She set Crookshanks food in the front seat, and he contented himself with eating while she ripped open an alcohol wipe to clean the cut on her foot. Once it was clean and bandaged, she shut the first aid kit and slid it under the driver's seat.

She looked up at the house. All the lights were still on, the TV too, and when she leaned forward she could see her window was still open. She was being silly, she knew she was, there was nothing in her house, she _knew_ there wasn't. Whatever happened must've happened in her head, and she chalked that up to loneliness and unease about her parents' death—she had never truly dealt with it, after all, had she? She had only ignored it these past few months—maybe she had even dreamed it, day-dreamed it, or—

But it didn't matter. The image of it remained in her mind and she couldn't for the life of her force herself to go back in there.

She wrapped herself up in her blanket and slept in her car for the night and she hoped she wasn't losing her mind.

—

 **? ¿ ? ¿ ? ¿**

 **NAUTICAL PARAMOUR GAVE ME THIS IDEA SHE SENT IT TO ME IN A PROMPT AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH**

 **i haven't really written horror that much, so idk how this comes across? idk it seems kind of jagged rn and i know tom has barely made an appearance other than to be a creep on the ouija board and then fuck with hermione's head but he'll be much more present soon, also things will get a bit more horror-movie-esque with lots of running around and screaming so lmao we'll see how tf i write that**

 **IDK! ! ! ! ! ! I LOVE THIS IDEA I THINK ITS SO FUN AND NAUTICAL PARAMOUR IS SUCH A BABE EVERYONE GO CHECK HER OUT SHE'S AMAZING SO LIKE IDK I JUST HOPE I DO IT JUSTICE! ! ! ! idk how long it'll be. I have all the events already plotted out so I'm thinking probably three chapters, maybe four, and I want to try and get it done before Halloween? ? ? ? We'll see! ! !**

 **Anyway I hope you guys like it, omg please let me know and send Nautical Paramour some love because this was all her idea! ! ! ! ! ! she's amazing! ! ! ! ! ! ! I love her! ! ! !**

 **please review! let me know what you think, I now this is a lot of words for not a lot of action but…..? ? ? ? ? AHHH IDK JUST LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK**


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione woke rather early in the morning, woken by a combination of the sun streaming in from the windows around her and Crookshanks attempting to make himself comfortable on her chest. She grumbled, sitting up and catching him before he fell off the seat, depositing him in the front. His food was empty, she realized, and he meowed impatiently for more. She picked up her phone which had fallen by the bloodstain on the floor, wiggled her toes when she remembered the small injury on her foot and felt the sharp sting from the movement.

It was half past six in the morning.

Her sleep had been tumultuous at best, interrupted once by a car that drove past with a ridiculously loud engine, once by the memory of the blood in the kitchen, multiple times because Crookshanks kept wandering to the back seat in an attempt to suffocate her by sitting on her face. She rubbed her eyes tiredly and spent a moment to sit back and allow herself to fully awake. Her body ached, the backseat of her car wasn't particularly comfortable, not to mention the seatbelt buckle had repeatedly jabbed her in the hip whenever she moved the wrong way. She sighed tiredly, staring blankly at the quiet line of houses outside her car before allowing her eyes to fall shut again.

Crooks gave another pitiful meow and she cracked open an eye to glare at him as he watched her from the front seat.

"Alright," She muttered tiredly, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders and climbing out of the backseat, opening the drivers seat to scoop Crookshanks up in her arms and carry the squirming feline to her front door. She dropped him to the ground when she crossed the threshold, and he wound himself around her legs and nearly tripped her as she shut the door behind her and made her way to the kitchen.

She cast a glance to the bin, saw the Ouija board sticking out. She ignored it.

The house was easier to be in with the daylight streaming in through the windows. The kitchen looked nothing like it had in the dark, disguised by shadows and her own overactive imagination. With Crookshanks fed, she walked back into the living room and switched off the telly which was still playing, and glanced somewhat nervously around the room.

She still needed to unpack. Boxes in the kitchen, boxes in her room, she should probably sort through the cupboard under the stairs at some point, too, but at the moment she wanted nothing more than a long shower. And when she went to run her fingers through her hair and nearly lost her hand in the process, she decided washing and brushing her hair sounded heavenly at the moment.

She went upstairs to her bedroom first to collect her clothes and her shower products, then opted for using her parents old bathroom—it was bigger than the one she used to use, nicer too—and she hesitated at their bedroom door. It was shut, and she couldn't remember if she shut it or not. She stood there for about thirty seconds before she huffed angrily. "Paranoid," She muttered to herself, pushing open the door and beelining to the bathroom at the other end.

She pushed the door halfway shut but didn't bother shutting it all the way. Crookshanks tended to get upset if she ever shut him out of rooms, and she was home alone anyway. She carefully lined up her shampoo and soap in the shower before turning it on, allowing the water to warm up as she undressed. She hesitated for a moment at her foot, wondering if she should leave it on, but she was fairly certain the bandages would just fall off anyway, so she unwound them and threw them away, examining the cut on the bottom of her foot. It wasn't much of anything, truly, it only bled so much because it was in such an unfortunate place.

It stung when it touched the hot water, but the pain faded away rather quickly, and the heat did wonders for the ache in her shoulders and her back, and for a moment she considered just plopping down in the spray of warm water and taking a nap there. Instead, bowed her head and allowed the warm water to soothe her, let it wash away the apprehension and ache in her muscles.

She heard the slow creak of the door to the bathroom opening, cast a slightly irritated glance in the direction of the door, assuming it was Crooks even though she couldn't see anything past the steam that collected along the glass door of the shower. She hurried along, quickly shampooing her hair because surely he was about to start yowling for attention the longer she spent shut away from him.

He hair was rinsed out and she rubbed at her face to make sure no soapy residue made its way into her eyes, but when she blinked open her eyes there was a handprint cutting through the steam on the glass.

She jerked back, her feet slipping along the wet floor and her hands knocking bottles to the ground as she caught herself. She stared at the print on the glass, slowly reached out her hand, ashamed to see her fingers were shaking. She slowly stretched her fingers out against the handprint. The fingers were longer than hers, the palm bigger, it wasn't her hand that made that, it—

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the handprint away. It would disappear just like everything in the kitchen had, nothing more than a figment of her imagination. But when she opened her eyes again it was still there, slowly disappearing from the steam that recollected against the glass.

She wiped it away, three angry swiped of her hand across the glass and it was gone.

"Irrational," She muttered to herself as she turned off the shower, "You are being _irrational_."

She left the shower, angrily drying her hair with the towel and pulling on her underwear and her shorts and her bra, dragging a brush through her still wet hair on the way to her bedroom, yanking out the sweater Ronald's mother had knitted for her a few years back and yanking it on, knowing it was too hot to wear it but the early morning didn't bring the harsh heat that the later hours would bring, so she would enjoy the comfort the water brought for now.

Crookshanks wasn't upstairs, it seemed, so if he had pushed the door open he hadn't elected to stay in the bathroom with her. She ignored the incident in the shower, sliding a sock on her injured foot because it wasn't bleeding anymore and she didn't want to walk back outside to get the first aid kit. She wasn't going to freak out. She was absolutely fine on her own, she didn't need to call anyone, she could unpack her stuff and calm down and she was _fine_.

She fished her headphones out of her bag, slid her phone into the waistband of her shorts and popped her headphones in, the music helped put her at ease and offered a bit of a distraction. She let her hair air dry, uncaring if it frizzed out to a lions mane because she would probably end up wrestling it into a bun once it was dry anyway, and started in the kitchen to unpack the boxes in there.

The unpacking was slow, and she wound up shooing Crookshanks out the back door so he would stop tripping her up while she was unpacking. The music helped pass the time quickly, and the fact that she actually had something to do worked as a fantastic distraction from the memories of her parents and of all the strange things her mind was coming up with.

She was probably just running on too little sleep. And stress. And grief. That's why this was happening.

It wasn't long before the heat from outside became a bit suffocating, even inside the house, so she opened up all the windows to let the breeze in and divulged herself of her sweater, letting it hang over the back of the couch as she sorted through the boxes of books that had been left in the living room, filling up the spaces on the bookshelf and keeping her favorites in the box to bring up to her room.

She was stretching up on her toes to slide a book on the top shelf when she felt something slide up her waist.

Something that might've been a scream caught in her throat as she whirled around, pulling her earbuds out so she could hear, but the room was empty when she turned. Her waist burned where she had felt something, not in a way that hurt but in a way that silently reminded her that she had felt it, that it wasn't a stray hair or a bug—she had felt something lay itself upon her waist and drag up.

She buried her face in her hands. "You're being ridiculous," She chastised herself, "Calm down and be rational."

She turned her music off, gave unpacking a rest when she saw the time. It was already noon, and she felt exhausted and sweaty, and she wondered briefly if her air-conditioning was even working against the thick heat wave London as experiencing. Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, along her forehead, and even in only her shorts and a bra and the single sock over her injured foot, she still felt like she was floundering in the heat. She switched the TV on, intent on taking a break and letting herself cool down with a glass of water.

She hadn't eaten anything, she realized. She told herself she would in a moment, but after a few minutes of blankly watching whatever drama was on the telly, she laid her head down on the armrest of the sofa and she fell asleep.

She dreamed of someone, though she would never remember who and she wasn't entirely convinced there ever was a who. In her dreams she very rarely ever remember specific people, usually just bodies and voices and ideas rather than people she could name. But someone was there, beside her where she dozed on the couch. She didn't realize she was dreaming, didn't question the presence of the hand at the small of her back that slowly slid up her spine.

It was warm, blisteringly so, and she couldn't help but think about how long it had been since anyone had touched her like this, skin on skin, indulgent and intimate. And like a dream, she could see the hand too, didn't have to turn her head or open her eyes to see it drag up her spine, see and feel the way it stilled when she took a deep, slow breath.

She had missed this, the comfort that came from touch, the warmth of the gesture. But there was something, a flash of something—unease and anger and some other emotion that didn't even feel like hers—and she furrowed her brow, clinging to the warmth of the moment, the feel of the hand gliding up between her shoulder blades.

She heard voices, Harry and Ron, she thought, indistinct words that she couldn't make any sense of. She thought she heard the voices of her parents, too, murmuring somewhere in the room. And suddenly it was too loud, the sound of the voices and the ringing in her ears and the hand at her back continued its ascent until the fingers wrapped around the back of her neck.

And when her eyes fluttered open she saw him, kneeled beside the couch with his hand clasped around her neck, covered in blood. It soaked his shoulders, dripped over his collarbones, down his chest and onto the floor, it stained his paper-white skin, and amongst the voices and the screaming and the horrible ringing in her east she realized a moment too late that she was covered in it too—

She woke up, her intake of breath sounding like a wheeze as she scrambled up on the couch, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared at the place he had been. He wasn't there, he never was, it was only a dream, but the image of him remained. She had never seen so much blood on someone before, so much that she couldn't even discern where it was coming from—him or her or someone else—and his eyes were lost in it, looking just as scarlet as the blood that coated his skin.

She calmed her breath and closed her eyes, "It was a dream," She assured herself, dully noting how often she had started talking to herself in the past day alone, "It was a dream, everyone has bad dreams, you're not going crazy."

She had slept for hours, but she didn't feel any more rested. The sun had already mostly set, the last few strands of daylight falling across the quiet street outside. She glanced at the analog clock under the TV and saw that it was nearly nine, and she was caught between annoyance that her nap had stretched so long or relief that she had finally had a long bout of uninterrupted sleep.

But now it was nearly night, and she was alone.

She groaned when she felt the anxiety weighing on her chest. Couldn't she go a single moment in this house without having a total breakdown? Maybe it was the memory of her parents, maybe it was the fact that she was alone, maybe it was the fact that she hadn't slept much at all the past week save for the past nearly nine hours, or because she hadn't eaten well, or—

She needed to eat, she remembered. She still hadn't eaten.

When she moved to the kitchen, Crookshanks was pacing outside the glass door, so she let him in and set about finding something to eat. She didn't have anything in the house, save for some tea bags in the cupboard, but she remembered Ron had a plethora of snacks that he ate in the car on the ride to London so she put on the kettle and made her way out to retrieve a pack of biscuits and a half-eat bag of crisps from the passenger seat of the car.

The lights upstairs were all on, and she knew she should probably turn them off to save electricity but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she shut the car door again, bringing in what wasn't exactly a nutritious meal but at least it was something, and returned to her home to finish her tea.

She shut the curtains and the windows on the ground floor, readying herself for the night. She knew she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, not after she had slept all day, so she just hoped the sleep and the tea would help put her mind at ease enough to let her have a relaxing—or at least non-terrorizing—night to herself. She picked up her phone from the living room table on the way to the kitchen when the kettle started whistling. She had a text from Harry on her phone.

 _How's the house?_

She considered her reply, even typed out _It's hard, having trouble adjusting but I'm fine,_ before deleting that response and instead responding with something a bit more general.

 _Fine_ , she wrote, _I got most of the unpacking done._

She didn't want to worry him, didn't want him to know exactly what was going on in her head. She needed this week alone, needed it to calm herself down and get used to her new life in London in this horrible house.

She made her tea, wondered how a single night could make her hate the house she had loved all her life, and went upstairs to her bedroom leaving the lights and TV on. Whens he got up to her room she moved the box of her things to the ground, pulled her laptop out of her bag and sat upon the bed, her tea on the bedside table, and readied herself to have a relaxing night awake.

It was fine, at first. The sun had completely set and her window was shut, she grabbed a sweatshirt from her things and threw it on when her house finally cooled, read the academic texts that she would need to use when her classes started in a couple weeks and sipped at her tea (no milk, no sugar, but at least it was tea) and felt normal for the first time since she moved.

But of course that couldn't last long.

She was halfway through the first chapter of one of the recommended readings for her future classes when she heard it, two men talking somewhere outside her room. She turned her head to her open door to peer into the fully lit hall—she still kept all the lights on—and her heart jumped into her throat or a moment. She rose to her feet, slowly creeping toward the door, and it was then she realized the voices were coming from the television she had left on.

She hurried down the stairs, cringing when she reached the bottom at just how loud the TV was. She half-jogged across the room to switch it off, happy for the quiet, wondering how the volume had been cranked up so loud.

"No one is in the house," She told herself sternly, "Stop being ridiculous—"

The creak of a door interrupted her, and she jerked around to see the door to the kitchen slowly opening. She stayed there crouched by the television and stared at the doorway in silence, her heart in her throat as she waited for someone to show, a face to appear in behind the door but nothing happened.

"Crooks?" She called, her voice cracking. Her cat didn't reply, didn't show his fluffy face from around the door. She rose and slowly approached the kitchen, but just as she knew was the case, once she entered the kitchen and peered around the door there was no one there. There was no one in the kitchen at all. She ran her hands through her hair, let out a furious sigh, silently berating herself—

The door behind her slammed shut and she gasped, whirling around to face the shut door and backing herself away. Her breath rushed out of her lungs and her hands reached blindly behind her, trying to find something to defend herself with, but when her fingers found the handle of the drawer she knew contained the knives, she couldn't pull it open. She looked away from the door briefly, just long enough to make sure her hand was on the drawer as she pulled and pulled but it didn't budge.

Next the bin toppled over, slid a couple feet, the only contents of the bin falling out across the floor. The Ouija board and the planchette stared up at her from the floor.

"No," She said breathlessly, shaking her head—this was not happening, this wasn't real, she was making this up—and she stepped over the board on the floor, moving toward the kitchen door, "No, no, no—" She tried to turn the hand but it wouldn't budge, and no matter how she pulled the door wouldn't move. Frustrated, she slammed her fist on the wood, pulled at the handle again, refused to turn around and look at that stupid board—

Several thuds sounded around her, and she screamed in surprised when she saw the knife drawer had been emptied around her head, the knives standing out from where they were now lodged in the wood. She dropped to the ground, shaking like a leaf, "Jesus _fucking_ Christ—" She swore, but the moment she said it there was a rather intense thump against the door at her back, as if the words upset whatever was—

No, no, there was nothing in her house, these things didn't exist, it was in her _head_ , it was—

She felt something grab her leg, pull it out as if to drag her toward the board. She jerked her leg away, stood in order to wrap her hands around the handle of one of the knives and force it out from the wall. She held it in front of her, glancing around the room for whatever wasn't there, and she knew she was being irrational, knew this was all impossible, knew in a moment this would all be gone and the knives would still be in the drawer but right now it all felt so real.

She felt a chill at her back, her arms erupting in goosebumps, and when she whirled around there was that same ringing in her ears that she heard in her dream, so loud she couldn't hear anything else. And he was there, tall and gaunt, deathly pale and covered in blood, and she realized now what she didn't in her dream, that his eyes weren't hidden in the blood but rather matched it. The iris of his eye glowed as fiercely red as the blood that soaked his skin.

She raised her knife and tried to run it through his skull, but met the wall instead.

The room was silent, the ringing in her ears gone. She screwed her eyes shut and hoped when she opened them everything would be back to normal. But when she opened them the knives were still there, the Ouija board was still on the floor and the bin had fallen over. Furiously she scooped the board up, shoved it back in the bin and threw the planchette in afterward. Looking around at the empty, silent room, she even allowed herself a moment to believe it, a moment to shout, "Leave me _alone_!"

She heard a meow outside the kitchen door, and the scratching of claws against the wood. She tried the handle, relieved beyond words to feel it open easily, and Crookshanks tried to dash into the kitchen between her legs. Tried being the operative word, as Hermione immediately scooped Crookshanks up in her arms for comfort. Her cat, evidently, didn't agree with being held, because he squirmed in her arms and even dug his claws into her hand, making her drop him as blood seeped from the scratches. "Crooks!" She scolded him, as he sat by the glass door and meowed to be let out. "No!" She seethed as an answer, and the scratches cut deep, the blood dripping off her fingers and dripping to the floor.

She furrowed her brow at the little scrap of paper that was wadded up by her feet, sat upon the floor beside the drops of blood. She leaned down to pick it up, unfurling it to read what it was.

It was the number of that officer, Cormac McLaggen, his name scrawled across the paper. It must have fallen out of the bin when it got knocked over. She had planned on throwing it away and never thinking about it again—the fact that she was on the verge of an emotional breakdown and this man saw it fit to ogle her legs and give her number said enough about his character in her opinion—but she turned her eyes to the knives in the door and the wall, and…

She didn't want to be alone. But she didn't want to leave. To leave this house would mean to admit that either she was going crazy or there was something wrong in this house, something she didn't believe in. She didn't believe in ghosts or god or demons, she believed in the material world, she believed that she was slowly going insane and she couldn't stop it, and just for a moment she wanted to feel normal and sane. She wanted to forget about this stupid house adn all the shit that was happening.

She put the paper between her teeth, rinsed off her bloody hand and pressed a paper towel over the wound, then hurried upstairs and grabbed her phone and did something slightly stupid and impulsive. She texted Cormac McLaggen.

She saw a text from Harry, too— _Of course you did. You can wait until we get there to unpack, you know? so we can help? Anyway, are you settling in ok?—_ and she ignored it.

 _Cormac,_ She wrote, straight to the point, _It's Hermione Granger. Are you available?_

—

If there was one thing about McLaggen's personality that Hermione was thankful for, it was that he seemed to perfectly comprehend exactly what she wanted when he got her text. He arrived sometime near one in the morning, cocky smile stretched across his face, and Hermione wondered briefly if she would regret this in the morning. She drank more than enough of the wine from the liquor cabinet while she waited for Cormac to get there to keep herself from overthinking. She just wanted to be distracted, to stop thinking about losing her mind, to have someone touch her in a way that isn't comforting or worried or frightening, she just wanted to be normal for one second of her life.

His kisses were sloppy, too much tongue and a clumsy use of his teeth, he hadn't shaved and the coarseness of his cheek scraped against hers. He made some stupid comment about knowing he wanted her when he saw her legs when he responded to her call the night before and she stopped herself from commenting on how completely unprofessional that was. She dragged him up to her room, pushed her laptop off the bed and pulled him over her.

It was fairly quick, quicker than she would have liked but not abnormally so. He treated himself to her with only a little attention to her enjoyment, but he was loud and he was demanding enough in her attention that it was impossible for her to think about the knives that she had left in the kitchen door, or the blood on the floor from her hand that she hadn't cleaned up, or the Ouija board in the bin, or the man in blood in her dreams.

When he was done, she waited just long enough for him to catch his breath before they started again. She didn't particularly care that his hands were too firm when his fingers slipped between her legs or that his cheek was too rough when he kissed her neck. For the moment she was distracted, and for as long as she was distracted her mind couldn't escape her, couldn't start making things up, couldn't imagine the man in her dreams with the blood and the red eyes—

When she was finally able to sleep—Cormac fast asleep next to her—she slept deeply. Too deeply for dreams. Too deeply for the man in blood to haunt her.

Until she woke.

She hadn't ever shut her bedroom window, so when she woke, the light and breeze flowed freely into her room. She ached, it had been so long since she had been with anyone that it had hurt more than she expected, but she had slept. She had gone the remainder of the night without seeing anything that wasn't there. She knew this was temporary—she wouldn't exactly fuck someone every night just to keep herself sane—but the temporary loveliness of waking in a bed to the sunlight was more than she could ask for.

She felt a hand at her hip, and just barely stopped herself from groaning because part of her had hoped Cormac would have left before she woke. The hand slid around to her stomach, but rather than dipping downward like she expected it slowly moved up her abdomen. It was once it reached her ribs that she finally decided to stop feigning sleep and turn around, shifting so that she laid on her back and his hand paused at her sternum.

It wasn't Cormac.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she didn't move. She could have rolled off the bed—his hand was resting quite gently against her chest, it wasn't pinning her down or keeping her still—but she just lay there and stare at him, because as jarring as it was to see him again—the man of her nightmares—it was just as jarring to see him like this. He was clean, his hair no longer soaked in blood along his forehead, and he stared at her with dark, dark eyes. His hand didn't move.

"You aren't covered in blood," She murmured. She didn't know why she spoke at all, why she didn't scream and run, she knew that what she was seeing wasn't real but this was the first time her mind gave her something gentle, gave her something beautiful instead of something horrible and she clung to it with both hands, willed her mind to keep this image instead of the horrifying one from before.

"You are disagreeable when afraid," He responded. She didn't know what that meant, and it startled her that anything he said could confuse her when he was supposed to be a figment of her own imagination.

"I'm losing my mind." She croaked, and she could feel the movement of his hand between her breasts, until his fingers slid underneath her jaw. It took her a moment to understand that he was listening to her pulse, his fingers pressed against the spot under the corner of her jaw to feel her racing heartbeat.

"Is that what you think?" He asked her, and though she couldn't see a change in his expression she still felt the amusement and satisfaction of his tone, "You think you made me up in your head?"

"I think I want you to leave me alone," She whispered, felt the twitch of his fingers when she said it, the nearly undetectable quirk of his brow.

"I think I won't." He told her. Bathed in the light of the early morning instead of blood, Hermione thought he looked fiercely beautiful, the butter-brown glow of his dark hair looked like a halo, the way he loomed over her seemed neither frightful nor threatening. The presence of his hand against her throat might've unnerved her, she thought distantly that it should've, but it didn't.

"What do you want?" She asked. His thumb ran thoughtfully up the column of her throat.

"Just you," He told her.

"But I don't know what that means," She pressed.

"You will," He promised her. She didn't understand, didn't know what her mind was telling her, didn't know if she was dreaming or awake anymore. But she remembered the Ouija board, the way it spelled out you, y-o-u, remembered imagining whatever happened in the kitchen and the Ouija board falling out of the bin. She didn't feel comfortable, anymore, didn't want to be near this man who looked like an angel, this man she created in her head for reasons she didn't understand.

"Where is Cormac?" She asked, as if he should know. And suddenly she felt cold, the hazy warmth of the morning dissipating, and his hand tightened around her throat just shy of choking. His expression had still hardly changed, but she saw the clenching of his jaw, the tightening at the corners of his eyes.

"You should have never brought him here." He hissed. Gone was the quiet, gentle tone of his voice, replaced by a harshness that chilled her, caused her hair to stand on end and goosebumps to rise on her skin. She narrowed her eyes, trying to find the source of his anger but she wasn't certain where it stemmed from. She just wanted him to go away. She just wanted this hallucination to end.

"It's my house," She told him, "And I can bring in whomever I please."

"It is not just your house anymore." He said lowly, and the words unnerved her more than she expected. Memories of all that happened in the kitchen, the phantom touches, the strange dreams, the feeling that she was never quite alone, the feeling that she was always waiting for something horrible to happen—it all was brought to the forefront of her mind and brought with it a stubborn sort of anger that bloomed in her chest.

"There is nothing here," She said, but like had become natural to her the last few days, she was speaking to herself, "There's no such thing,"

"And you would prefer to believe you are losing your mind?" He asked.

"I would have lost my mind to admit to the existence of spirits in my home." She snapped back. His hand tightened briefly, something like a warning, but immediately after his thumb dragged down her throat and back up, softly, a motion that lacked the former hostility.

"No," He said, and she couldn't tell if he was agreeing or disagreeing with her by his tone. "That's what I like about you," He told her, his fingers pressed against her pules, "You don't believe in fairytales." His thumb traced the curve of her jaw and she watched his eyes flash red for a single dream-like moment, "Do you believe in nightmares?"

She knew he felt the stutter in her pulse.

In a moment, a blink, he was gone. And in his place, stretched out across the bed, Cormac McLaggen lay with his head tilted back, his back arched, his mouth gaping and his eyes wide and he was broken and bloody and—

The scream ripped through her throat so fiercely that it hurt. She threw herself off the bed so quickly that she tumbled onto the floor, her back colliding with the wall, but when she turned back to the bed he was gone.

The sheets weren't stained, there wasn't even an indent where he had been, but it was almost as if she could still see him there. The image was burned into her memory, one of his legs was broken to the point where she could see the bone tearing through the skin, his chest was bruised deep purples and blacks across his tanned chest, and his eyes were open and staring blankly at the ceiling and his blood had been everywhere.

"Cormac!" She called, wondering if he was still in the house, wanting to assure himself that he wasn't dead and that she had only made it up in her mind. What a horrible thing to make up, she thought. The man drenched in blood was horrible enough, the hallucination of her cat hanging dead in front of her back door was horrible, but this—

"Cormac!" She called again, throwing on some underwear and her sweatshirt and running outside the room, hurrying down the stairs and checking the kitchen and the living room. When both were empty, she hurried forward to the window in the living room to check outside.

His car was gone.

She sighed in relief. If he wasn't there then he wasn't dead, she had just made it up in her mind.

She collapsed by the window, burying her face in her hands. She couldn't go on like this, constantly questioning if she was seeing things or dreaming things, if things were real or not. And she didn't know what was wrong, why this was all happening, just that everywhere she turned there was something horrible waiting for her.

She needed to get out of that house.

She jumped to her feet, pushed back her tears and hurried up the stairs. she threw on a pair of jeans, some sandals that didn't hurt her foot, exchanged her sweatshirt for a t-shirt and slipped her phone into her pocket. Sliding her laptop into her backpack, she threw that on her shoulders and grabbed her keys on her way out, slamming the door shut behind her.

She texted Cormac, _Next time tell me when you leave so I can lock the door._ Mostly just hoping for a response to let her know he was alive. She ignored Harry's text, _Doin alright Mione?_ As well as the missed calls from Ron.

She got on a bus that rode into central London, counted out thirty minutes on the bus before she felt like she was far enough away, then she sat herself in the corner of the first coffeeshop she saw with the largest serving of tea they could give her.

It was loud and busy, people queued up to buy their coffee, a hoard of people waiting on the other end of the counter for their drinks to be made. Nearly every seat was filled, couples and families and friends and tourists, all sat around the coffeeshop talking, talking so loud she couldn't hear herself think. That was good, not thinking, not imagining, not making things up in her mind. No dead bodies or strange men or blood, no moving objects or power outages or anything else. Just her, and her tea, and the crowd.

The peace didn't last long.

She was there for three hours, tea long-since finished, and Cormac still hadn't texted her back. She sent him another text, _let me know when you get this,_ in hopes that he would actually respond. It could be that he was just ignoring her texts, she told herself. It could be he just wasn't interested in responding now that he had already had sex with her. Just because he wasn't responding didn't mean he was _dead_.

She shut her eyes, dug her nails into her palms and muttered under her breath, "It's all in your head, You're making things up, he isn't—"

But it was different here, outside the house. Here she didn't feel that weight, the sensation of being alone but not alone, the darkness that seemed to swallow her up and suffocate her. She felt more clarity of thought here, and it had never been that way before. She always thought clearer when she was alone, when she was in the quiet, but here in this bustling cafe she felt freer than she ever had in that house.

Against her better judgement, she pulled her laptop out and set it on the table in front of her, and like anyone in the twenty-first century would do when trying to find answers, she googled it.

She found too many stories about spirits and demons possessing and oppressing people from a ouija board, too many stories warning people against the use of them. Some talked about how you were safe if you were baptized with the spirit of Jesus Christ, which Hermione not only discounted for her own personal beliefs, but also because she had never been baptized and wasn't about to in order to protect herself from a made up demon in her house.

Quietly, she chastised herself. An open mind might be a good idea. It was either this or she was spiraling into madness.

She felt ridiculous, embarrassed, reading the obviously made up stories on the internet and hoping for answers. She checked her phone again, as she had been doing obsessively, waiting for an answer from Cormac that he still hadn't given her. If she just knew he was alright, she would know it was all in her head. If she just knew he was alive, she would know that everything she saw was madness, not a demon. She would know the man with the dark hair was nothing more than a figment of her imagination, and not…

She dialed Cormac's number. It went straight to voicemail.

She set her phone down on the table with a tremulous sigh, flexing her fingers over the keyboard. She thought back to the Ouija board, what she thought was a stupid prank. They hadn't properly said goodbye, which apparently was a mistake. It had known about what she read when she was eleven, which meant—if this was real—they had known her for quite some time.

She had asked them their name. The board spelled out V-o-l-d-e-m-o-r-t.

"Oh no," She muttered, more irritated than despondent, when the first link in the search results led to an article examining different culture's and religion's views of the devil. The irony wasn't lost on her, her recent interest in satanist teachings—which, she thought rather angrily, have nothing to do with the actual devil and in fact refute his very existence—and here she is entertaining the notion that the devil was haunting her.

She rubbed angrily at her face. This was outrageous, this was all so _fucking_ outrageous—

She googled Cormac's name, hoping she could find what station he worked at so she could call to see if he had been in to work, to prove to herself that this was all just her being crazy. But the first link that popped up was to a news website, and she felt her blood run cold.

An article about the suicide of Cormac McLaggen.

She felt tears jump to her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest. He had jumped in front of a train. She read the article quickly, read about the reaction of the other officers, the confusion at why he would do something like this, how strange it was to consider, the way they all accepted it like it was true. Hermione knew it wasn't, she had seen him in her bed that morning, broken and bloodied and—

That man had shown him to her, she realized. She invited him in to her home, so the man of her nightmares had killed him and he showed her what he did.

She slammed her laptop shut, shoving it into her bag, her head spinning and her breath uneven. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and picked up her phone, not sure what she was going to do but knowing that there was something inexplicable in her home that had killed someone because of her, something that hadn't killed her, something that didn't seem intent on killing her and she couldn't risk anyone else dying, she couldn't—

Harry answered after the first ring, "Mione!" He called excitedly, "Been trying to get ahold of you, I was starting to think we wouldn't hear from you until we moved in a week—"

"Don't come." She told him, hurrying out of the cafe and speed walking to the bus stop.

"Uh—what?" He sputtered.

"Don't come." She repeated firmly, swinging her backpack around to get out her oyster card as the bus pulled up, "Don't come to London."

"Hermione, what are you talking about, we've been planning this for—"

"I don't care how long we've been planning, Harry!" She snapped, "I'm telling you not to come. You can't come live in this house, you—"

"Hermione, what the hell?" Harry interrupted, "What is going on?

"Just don't come, _please_ ," She insisted, "There's—" She stopped, not wanting to sound completely crazy by admitting to a demon in her house, "There's a lot going on, and I need you to stay away—"

"Hermione—"

"Just—for once in your life, listen to me and do as I say!" She snapped, loud enough for the other people on the bus to glance in her direction. She took a deep breath and turned toward the window to lose their prying eyes. "Don't come." She repeated.

She hung up before he could say anything else.

He called her over and over on the bus ride home, so many times that she wound up switching off her phone. She needed to fix this before Harry and Ron could come back. She wouldn't risk her best friends dying because she refused to acknowledge that there was monster in her house.

It didn't want to kill her, the thing that appeared as a man soaked in blood. She was almost entirely certain of that fact.

So she would figure out how to kill _him_.

—

 **jfc hermione just like call a fuckin priest or like move? lmao**

 **I'M GLAD PPL LIKE THIS SO FAR! i got lots of very nice reviews. I'm trying to crank this all out and have it done by halloween, I'm not sure if i will succeed…BUT I WILL TRY**

 **i feel like this chapter is still not too intense, i mean cormac died but that was pretty low-key and other than that this was like all hermione's internal monoogue, so i hope that wasn't too boring? at least tom is making more appearances! he will be much much more present next chapter, which is incidentally also when the shit hits the fan. I haven't worked out if this will be three or four chapters, probably four? But it might be three. we'll see when i write it lmao.**

 **BUT ANYWAY I HOPE THIS IS OKAY! let me know what you think?**

 **Also i sort of proofread this but….only sort of…..idK i think this chapter is kind of slow but next chapter is gonna be a lot more screaming and running around and people almost dying not to mention more of hermione talking to tom sO?**

 **ANYWAY PLS LET ME KNO UR THOUGHTS ilu all and ur nice words get ready 4 next chapter its a shit show**


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione's knowledge of Harry's childhood had never extended past three facts. One, he was an orphan, had been ever since he was an infant and he hardly remembered his parents past a few worn photographs he kept tucked into his wallet. The second was that he was from London, though south of the Thames while she had always lived north, under the care of his horrid aunt and uncle. The third was that, in his youth, he had remained quite, quite close to the priest at the all-boys school he attended.

Father Albus Dumbledore.

It was for that reason he remained fiercely and faithfully religious even now, though a pleasant kind, the comforting kind that didn't judge and didn't demand and didn't shriek. She supposed having a priest as the closest thing to a father figure would have that effect, and for all the misery Harry faced she supposed it made sense he had built himself a fortress of comfort within religion. She had never quite understood it, skeptical of religion from a very young age due to her parents' disinterest in it. She had attended a strictly catholic school purely because it was academically competitive, but she had for the most part always viewed religion as a funny sort of fairytale, something people believed in to feel better.

But now, everything that had happened, the visions, the dreams, the news of Cormac's death, many things she had stubbornly refused to believe in suddenly seemed much too plausible. She didn't know what she was dealing with, had more or less ignored the education that might've given her the knowledge of how to deal with demons or—god forbid—the devil himself. And it wasn't as if she could turn up at her local church, approach whatever priest was there and say she had a man haunting her dreams and pretending to kill her cat who said he was the devil.

So it made sense for her to be here, it was logical to approach a more knowledgeable party. She was simply following a sensible series of steps that led her from floundering in the unknown to sitting across from a man who could very well bring an end to all of this. Still, sitting in the office of Albus Dumbledore as he stared her down with strangely perceptive twinkling blue eyes, the knowledge that it was logical did nothing to make her feel more at ease. Whether it was the fact that she was seeking council from a priest, or the fact that she was seeking council about a devil that she believed was haunting her home, she couldn't decide which unsettled her more.

"I appreciate you meeting with me." She told him, attempting to be polite. She wasn't sure she managed, couldn't discern from his expression if she had succeeded in pleasantries or if her unease was showing too much for anything out of her mouth to be pleasant.

"I understand you are a close friend of Harry's." He responded, a friendly smile gracing his lips. She didn't smile back.

"We lived together," She told him, "In Brighton."

"Lived?" He asked, "It was my understanding you would still live together in Islington."

"That's actually," She sighed, rubbing tiredly at her forehead, "That's what I want to speak to you about."

"I admit I know very little about you," Dumbledore said calmly, "Harry did not keep in touch as often as he promised he would when he moved to Brighton," He shifted in his seat, fixed her with a smile and a raised eyebrow as if he was making a joke she didn't understand, "But he did contact me when he first thought of moving back to London here with you, and I gather that he cares about you very much."

"The three of us care for each other," Hermione agreed, both confused and irritated at the change of subject. "Harry and Ron are my best friends."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in a way that made her muscles tense as if ready for a fight, and she felt a bit guilty that she so quickly took a dislike to the man who played such an important role in her friend's life. "So what has changed that you are no longer living together?"

"There's something in my house." She spat out, not exactly out of anger but more of an attempt to get the confession out before her rational mind forced her to bury it. "Like—a…" She tried to force the words out, but they caught in her throat. It sounded rational in her thoughts, backed up by the memories of everything she had seen and everything that had happened, but speaking it out loud made her feel decidedly irrational. She shut her eyes, taking a deep, soothing breath, and then without opening her eyes—so that she could pretend she was only speaking to herself—she said firmly, "The devil is haunting my house."

When she opened her eyes, she felt somewhat mollified by the stillness that had fallen over the room, the seriousness in Dumbledore's expression. But when he spoke it was still with some degree of skepticism, "The devil?"

"Believe me, I know how it sounds," Hermione rushed to explain, "And I don't even know what I'm doing here except that I can't go home until I have a plan, until I know what I'm dealing with, and I can't let Harry or Ron come here because I can't let them die, too, I can't—"

"Like your parents?" Dumbledore asked, and Hermione halted her ramblings to stare up at him in shock. Like her parents? She was so surprised by the sudden reference—both by the fact that he knew in the first place and the fact that he brought it up—that she could do nothing but stare at him in silence for a moment before she realized what he was asking.

He didn't know Cormac was dead. He heard 'die, too' and assumed she meant her parents. It surprised her how little she had truly thought of them in the past few hours, considering the majority of this year was spent purposeful avoiding thoughts of them, forcing herself to move on. She supposed when dealing with a murderous _something_ , one forgets about any other problems that had plagued them before. "No," She answered finally. "This isn't about my parents, this is about the devil in my house—"

"Miss Granger," He said calmly, "If I may call you that?" She nodded her assent, though he could have called her by her first name if he wanted. She would have preferred it. "I am no stranger to demon oppressions, but I assure you whatever is in your house is not the devil."

"How can you know that?" She asked incredulously, "How can you sit there and tell me it's _not_ when you didn't suffer through all of the bullshit I have in the past two days?" He opened his mouth to respond, but in her anger she didn't let him, "I'm practically an _atheist_ , do you have any idea how ridiculous it sounds even to me to say that the _devil_ is haunting me?"

"I understand," He responded, his voice slow and quiet, the way people speak to someone they think is insane, "But believe me when I say I have dealt with quite a lot in my past, devil included." He paused, a strange sort of break in conversation that Hermione couldn't help but try and read into, "And I assure you it is not him."

It wasn't necessarily that she didn't believe him, it was just that there seemed to be so much left unsaid in that statement, and it was everything he didn't say that made her feel uneasy. She couldn't think of anything to say, so for a long moment the two of them sat in silence. She could hear a car drive by outside the open window of his small, cramped office.

"How about you tell me what has happened so far?" He offered kindly.

"We used a ouija board," There was a telling set to his brow that suggested how deeply he disapproved of that, "And after Harry and Ron left, I was hearing noises, and my cat—" Her voice broke, so she cleared her throat and continued, "My cat was dead and hung from the ceiling and the whole room was coated in blood. But when I came back it was normal. I thought I was losing my mind." The events poured from her lips in a dull and even tone, sounding like she was reciting facts from a textbook rather than the nightmare she had been living. "He appears in my dreams. He spoke to me once. This morning, or last night, or whenever I was dreaming, right before I woke up and—" She had to shut her eyes and banish the thought of Cormac's broken body, "He showed me his dead body. It was gone, then, and I thought I made it up, but I didn't."

"He showed you his dead body?" He asked.

"He—Voldemort, he calls himself—" She didn't miss the tensing of Dumbledore's shoulders, "He showed me a man named Cormac's body. We had been—" She hesitated, unsure about admitting to sex outside of marriage to a priest, but she figured she wasn't exactly here for holy communion, so it didn't matter, "I invited him to stay the night, and he—Voldemort—didn't like that."

Dumbledore was watching her more closely than he had in the entire time she had been in his office. That near-irritating twinkle in his eye had dulled at this point, his eyes boring into her in a way that made her desperately curious to know what he was thinking. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not, and she readied herself to flee his office in case he started to phone the authorities to take her to an asylum.

"Voldemort." He echoed dully.

"I know how it sounds." She murmured, lowering her eyes to his fingers which were laced together on his desk. She was berating herself for coming here, berating herself for believing anyone could help her, berating herself for putting herself in this position in the first place with that stupid ouija board—

Dumbledore sighed, withdrew his hands from the desk and shifted in his seat. When his eyes fell from observing her in order to stare idly at the desk, he said quietly, "I would appreciate if you do not mention what I am about to say to anyone, most especially Harry."

Hermione wasn't sure what to say.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on his lap in a way that wasn't nervous or uncomfortable, but rather solemn, as if the subject at hand was not only one of secrecy but one of grave importance as well. Hermione held her breath, "I suppose you are familiar with what happened to Harry's parents."

"I know they died when he was quite young," She admitted, "He lived with his aunt and uncle. He doesn't speak about any of it."

"Yes," He agreed, his eyes lifting to meet hers. "His parents died when he was only an infant. I am afraid I even bore witness to it."

Hermione nodded, admittedly surprised but intent on remaining expressionless until she understood his point, "He did say he knew you his entire life. He's talked about you more than anything else in his childhood."

"His parents and I, and some others, we were trying to…deal with something of great importance." The way he picked his words so carefully made Hermione nervous, and she had to consciously stop herself from writhing her hands in her lap, "You see, there was something rather dangerous in the world at that time, and we planned to rectify it."

"I don't understand what this has to do with my house, sir." Hermione cut in, and then added, "With respect."

"You consider yourself an atheist," He commented lightly, resting his folded hands on his desk once more as he regarded her, "So you may not believe me when I say this. Regardless it is the truth." He took a breath before continuing, "There was a man at the time, very dangerous, and very dark. His name was Tom Riddle."

He paused as if she should know who that was. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with the name."

"I hoped you wouldn't be," He told her, "He was, by all accounts, human, but truly there was nothing human about him other than his appearance."

"What was he, then?" She asked quietly, a bit skeptically.

Dumbledore frowned. "Some may have called him the antichrist," He started, and Hermione had to bite down hard on her tongue. "I always simply considered him the devil incarnate, summoned and born into a human body to allow him unfettered access to the human world." He shifted, rose from his chair to walk the few paces it took to reach the bookshelf to his left, pulling out a worn black journal. "He preferred the title Voldemort, a lesser known title, thought to have been the name that Lucifer took after his fall from grace."

"How do you know he wasn't just an insane man who thought he was the devil?" Hermione challenged. Dumbledore met her eyes with a weary expression as he made his way back to his chair.

"You did not see what I saw." He told her simply, sitting down and laying the book in his lap. "At any rate, we succeeded. The details are unimportant, but I tell you this only because I wanted to explain how certain I was that whatever is in your house because of that Ouija board is not Voldemort." He looked down to his lap, and she heard the sound of rustling pages as he opened up the black book before depositing it on the table. It was filled with diagrams and sloppy notes in cursive, short phrases and words she didn't understand. She reached for the book, and he let her drag it off the desk to hold it in her hands.

"This looks like the type of journal one would find hidden in the room of a resident of an insane asylum," She said honestly, raising her eyes to meet Dumbledore's. She didn't say it to be rude, only to explain how little this book meant to her, how little it did to convince her that what was in her house wasn't the devil as they said they were.

"I suppose so," Dumbledore conceded with a wry smile, "That is how we trapped him." She looked back at the pages, at the drawings and diagrams and notes that she didn't understand, "Six objects that, with the grace of God, could be used to trap him away in his physical form, keep him locked away where he could do no harm." She looked up to meet his eyes again, letting the journal fall to her lap, but his eyes had glazed over and he looked caught up in a memory, "James and Lily lost their lives to a hoard of demons attempting to protect their master, and Harry nearly died as well. I thank the Lord I was able to save him and send Voldemort to his rightful prison."

"So what if someone destroyed the objects?" Hermione asked. Dumbledore's eyes snapped to hers.

"I beg pardon?"

"If he's trapped because of six objects, what if someone just went around and destroyed all of them. Doesn't that mean he could be in my house now?"

"Impossible," Dumbledore said dismissively, "Especially considering the journal you hold is one of them."

"One of them?" She pressed.

"Horcruxes." He explained, "They would all need to be destroyed in order to free him, and that one is still in one piece, as you can see." He leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap once more, his blue eyes twinkling as he eyed in her in what she thought might be suspicion, "And if he was in your house, he would be in physical form. We never destroyed his body, only used it to trap him."

She looked back down, unsure if she was glad to hear that the devil wasn't in her house or upset because this meant she didn't know what it was. She closed the journal, examined the leather binding in silence.

"I will be glad to come to your house and see what is there, and bless the house to be rid of any evil spirits," Dumbledore assured her, "I promise it is a good thing that it is not Voldemort in your house."

"I understand," Hermione murmured, "But why can't I tell Harry any of this?"

Dumbledore was quiet, but she still did not look back up at him. Instead she thumbed quietly through the journal, trying to make sense of the notes inside, of all the cut-out-pages paper clipped inside. "I have never told him exactly what befell his parents," He admitted after a time, "I do plan to, but I would rather he hear it from me than anyone else."

Hermione wasn't sure she understood, wasn't sure she would tell Harry or not, but any reply she had set on her lips died when she saw the photograph clipped to one of the pages.

It was old, in black and white and poor quality, but she recognized him immediately, recognized the familiar parlor of his skin, the cut of his cheeks, the shape of his brow. The man from her dreams stared back at her from that photograph and the name 'Tom Riddle' was scrawled in the margin of the page.

"Miss Granger?" She heard, and it took her a moment to realize he had been calling her name. She blinked once, twice, her heart in her throat.

"I—yes?" She breathed, her mind turning too quickly to be demure any longer, because that was irrefutably him on the page, the man in her dreams, the maniac who haunted her house, the man who Dumbledore claimed he had killed, the one who was supposed to be shut away but he wasn't he was in her house, except not completely, not physically, he was—

"I understand it is a lot to ask to keep something from your friend." He told her, and she belatedly realized he must be talking about Harry, about keeping everything they had just discussed quiet.

"Of course," She agreed, then reworded, "I mean, I understand. I won't say anything to him, but I think you ought to soon."

He nodded and smiled tightly, "I think I ought to as well." She couldn't discern if he meant that or not. "If you wouldn't mind, Miss Granger—" He began, his hand stretching out in the space between them, and a shock went through her when she realized he was asking for the journal. Instinctually, she bristled, unwilling to give up the one thing that could explain everything that had happened, how his plans had failed, how this man, this Tom Riddle, this Voldemort wound up in her house when he was supposed to be shut away—she should tell him, she thought, make him believe her when she said it was him, that his plan hadn't worked, that Voldemort was back, but—

"Father, I am so sorry to interrupt—" She heard a man's voice over her shoulder. She didn't turn around to see who it was, instead kept her eyes on Dumbledore's face as his eyes turned over her shoulder, his hand poised still in the air. "Could I—just for a moment—there's a bit of an emergency—"

"Of course," He smiled gently, turning his eyes back to Hermione. "I am afraid I will have to cut this short, Miss Granger. I advise you stay elsewhere tonight if I cannot bless the house today—"

"We can sort something out," Hermione smiled amicably, setting the book in his hand. "I know your contact details, I can leave mine. Thank you for all your help." He nodded and smiled, standing to slide the book back into place on the shelf before coming to her side. She stood from the chair, but as she turned to walk away she picked up her back the wrong way and everything spilled out at her feet, "Oh—sorry—I—I'm so sorry—"

"It's quite alright, I'll help you—"

"Father, please—" The man at the door insisted, "I hate to rush you, but I—"

"Go ahead," Hermione insisted, hurriedly picking up her things, "I know my way out. I'll call you later today to see when you can bless the house." Dumbledore hesitated for only a moment, his twinkling eyes boring into hers, before he nodded and smiled, and followed the man out of the room.

When Hermione had collected her things, she walked to the entrance to the office and peered outside. The two were already gone, dealing with whatever emergency there was, so she hurried back to the bookshelf and pulled the journal from the shelf and slid it into her bag, pulling the zip closed. She started toward the door but then paused, turning her head to his desk and peering at the rosary that sat on the corner near his chair. She picked that up too, then proceeded to quickly search through his drawers for anything useful she could take. She found a bottle of water labeled holy water and one more rosary that she took and shoed into the front pocket of her backpack along with the other stolen objects.

She strode quickly and purposefully out of his office and down the narrow staircase that led to the lobby of the small church that was attached to the school, out the front door, and when she saw the bus pulling up to the stop down the road she took off in a mad sprint, wanting to be sure she wasn't stuck at the bus stop for ten minutes lest Dumbledore realize the journal was gone and come storming after her. She waved her hand wildly above her head, cutting across the street directly in front of the bus and nearly getting run over in the process, before rounding the side of the bus and hurrying on, pressing her card against the scanner and ignoring the sour look the driver gave her.

She sat in the first empty seat she saw and pulled the book from her bag, examining the picture. She would do what Dumbledore said, find another place to stay for the night, she could read the whole journal and make sense of it as best she could. She couldn't return to her house now, not after everything she knew, not without being prepared, and she had already told Harry not to return. She could camp out in a cheap hostel for a few nights and figure out what to—

She froze when something finally happened upon her. Crookshanks was still at home.

Swearing under her breath, she pressed the open pages of the book against her face and held back a frustrated groan.

But the decision was already made. She couldn't leave her cat behind.

She would have to go back to that house.

—

She stood outside of her house for a very long time.

She was suitably terrified of that house, at this point, and for good reason. She had been out all day, but not long enough for the sun to have set. She was thankful for the light, but she wasn't certain a bit of sunlight would make any difference one way or another. Still, all she had to do was go in, get her cat, put him in the carrier, and drive off somewhere that allowed pets or just sleep in her car for the next few days.

She took a deep breath and started toward the front door.

When she entered the house, it was quiet and unassuming. It didn't seem at all the nightmare she had built it up to be in her mind, but then she knew looks were deceiving. "Crooks?" She called tentatively, shutting the front door behind her and walking carefully across the living room, dropping her bag on the floor as she went. She pushed open the kitchen door, eyed the knives still embedded in the door and the wall, knowing she would have to deal with that eventually but not having the energy at the moment. She started towards Crookshanks's food, pouring some into a little bowl and shaking it to try and lure him nearer. "Crookshanks!" She called.

She hesitated when her eyes locked on the board in the bin, the thing that started it all. Distractedly, she started toward the board and pulled it out to examine it. She could burn it, she thought, just for her own sake, just for the hell of it. Just because she hated it. She wanted to, she knew it wouldn't do any good, but just to be able to destroy this stupid object that ruined her life would at least be therapeutic, in some way.

Or…

She felt something brush against her legs and she jumped, looking down at Crookshanks who was winding himself around her ankles. She let out a shaky breath and set his food on the counter so she could pick him up, happy he was still okay. He immediately writhed in her arms, trying to get at the food on the counter, and she knew she should go get his carrier and leave, get somewhere where she hadn't invited the devil, get somewhere safe for her to figure it all out so she could fix her own mistakes. But her eyes went back to the board which she had set on the counter by Crookshanks food…

She set him on the floor, picked up his food, nearly tripped over him as he trotted between her legs in his excitement as she moved toward the screen door. She pushed open the screen door and set his food on the ground outside, "Go on," She cooed as he rushed out the doorway, "Out where it's safe."

She shut the door to keep him outside and turned back to the board. This was stupid, she knew. This was reckless. But she felt like she was on the precipice of understanding everything that had been happening, understanding who she was dealing with. And Dumbledore's story had told her so much, but it told her nothing about the role she played, about why this man who should be trapped in hell was haunting her and saying all he wanted was her—

She picked up the board and reached in the bin for the planchette, moving into the living room to sit where her and Harry and Ron had sat only a couple nights before. She placed the board on the table and the planchette on top, and for a moment she sat in worried stillness before placing her hands gently on the planchette.

She wasn't sure what to say. She sat there in silence, and then finally settled on simply asking, "Are you there?"

She wasn't surprised when the planchette slowly moved to the word 'yes.'

Tendrils of fear wrapped around her heart and her lungs, making her chest feel tight, but she swallowed down the fear when it rose up in her throat. She just needed to ask him something, anything, demand he explain what he wants with her. She can't outsmart him if she doesn't know what he wants with her, and she can't kill him if she can't outsmart him.

"You killed Cormac," She said instead of asking any of the questions in her mind. There were too many rushing around in her head, too many for her to decide what was best to ask first. The planchette shifter over the word 'yes.'

"Why?" She asked, and she traced the movement as the piece roamed and paused over letter after letter, threading them together in her head to understand what he was saying.

 _Touched you_.

Her hands were shaking, she realized. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest and she desperately wished she had never come to this house, never taken Harry and Ron's advice to return to London for university. She very nearly convinced herself to get up and get Crooks and leave, leave and never come back, sod the devil in her home who wanted her, she could move back to Brighton and never set foot in London or this horrible house again, but her relentless curiosity won out.

"He jumped in front of a train," She said, proud that her voice wasn't shaking, "Can you make anyone do that?"

The planchette moved slowly to the word no, and slowly spelled out, _this house_.

"You can only do that to people within this house?" She clarified. The planchette didn't move, but she supposed that meant she couldn't be wrong, "Because we called you here?"

The pieced dragged her fingertips to the word 'yes.'

She hesitated, wondered if she should say anything at all, but after a moment she swallowed and asked, "Are you restricted to where you can go because…because you're trapped?"

The planchette didn't move. She sat in petrified silence, her fingers twitching over the smooth surface of the piece until it finally shifted, moved across the board a bit quicker than before in order to spell out a name. Dumbledore.

"Yes," She confirmed after a brief silence, "I spoke to him. I learned about you."

The room was silent and still, and she suddenly hated the limitations of speaking through this board. She couldn't tell if he was angry or pleased or surprised or irritated, she couldn't discern what his next move or next words would be, she had no idea what he was thinking or what he was feeling when he could only spell things out through a board. She waited, waited so long she thought that maybe he had simply left, maybe Dumbledore frightened him and he fled and she was through with him, or maybe he just wasn't speaking to her anymore and he would just finally kill her instead.

Then it moved. She traced the letters and made sense of the words, but as soon as it stopped moving she second guessed her understanding. Had she remembered the letters incorrectly?

 _Go to sleep_ , it said. Briefly she considered it could be a threat, maybe he meant to kill her, maybe sleep truly meant death. But nothing stirred in the room, and she remained where she sat, staring at the board in confusion as it moved again. _Go to sleep,_ it repeated.

"Why?" She asked. It took some time to respond.

 _Dream_.

She understood, then, what it meant. He wanted her to sleep so he could speak to her, and truthfully she considered it at first. He could only say to much through a board, and if she got the opportunity to speak to him now that she knew who he was, now that she knew what he wanted, she could learn more about him than Dumbledore could ever tell her in the journal she had stolen.

But he could touch her in her dreams, she remembered. She recalled the feel of his hand drawing up her back, or up the center of her chest so his fingers could press against her pulse. He could harm her if he wished. He could do whatever he wanted to in her dreams.

But they were only dreams, weren't they?

She pulled her hands away from the piece to rub at her eyes, breathing harshly through her nose and trying to calm her racing heart. It wasn't as if it would be easy to fall asleep anyway, and she shouldn't, she really shouldn't, he was the devil, he was evil, he was the reason Harry's parents were dead if Dumbledore was right, and he had been locked away for a reason—

But he had been watching her, still. Somehow from his place locked away wherever he was, he still saw her, saw her enough to recall what she had read when she was eleven. He knew her name, and he knew _her_ , and he _wanted_ her, he told her he wanted nothing _but_ her, and despite every logical thought telling her the smartest thing was to run and hide and never turn back to that house she couldn't stop herself from wanting to _know_.

So she pulled herself up on the couch, grabbed the sweater she had left strewn across the back of the couch and pulled it on, too warm for the hot night but she always slept best bundled up. She laid her head down on the arm rest and tried to relax, curled her legs into her chest and closed her eyes and tried not to think, tried to calm her mind and body to feel tired enough to sleep again.

She thought he must've helped her, wondered at how exhausted she had felt the past few days, wondered if that wasn't a natural side effect to her own stress and grieving. She wondered about how little she truly knew about all of this, how little she understood while still managing to be somehow caught in the center of it. And she thought, with the realization of the power he could hold over her, even power as small as helping her to fall asleep, that she should feel afraid, that she should regret her decision to do as he said and rest. But though the fear was ever-present, she didn't regret it, knew that there was truthfully no other choice, knew that she could have never left that house without knowing, without finally stringing together what had been happening and what the hell she had done to deserve any of it.

She didn't realize she had finally fallen asleep until she felt something against her cheek, a brush so soft she thought it might be Crookshanks sniffing at her face, trying to wake her, until she remembered that she had shut him outside.

Her eyes snapped open and she sat up hurriedly, watched as he allowed his hand to fall and he stared at her from where he was crouched beside the couch. She didn't like that he felt so comfortable touching her, and especially didn't like the fact that while his face was certainly not the most expressive, there was an undeniable hint of satisfaction there, like he was pleased with her. Neither spoke, or even moved, and Hermione found it almost difficult to believe that he could be a demon at all, let alone the king of hell, not when he looked like he did. Not only did he look too human, but he looked too beautiful, too perfectly crafted as if out of marble, something that belonged in a museum, an artist's prized creation. He looked angelic, every bit as much the angel he used to be.

But then again, she had read that angels looked far more terrifying than demons ever could. That was why whenever they appeared they always started with—

"Do not be afraid," He said, low and quiet and with a certain degree of mocking. She snapped back to the present, out of her brief reverie, and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

"Can you read my mind?" She asked. She thought she saw the corner of his mouth move upwards, but then he had already opened his mouth to speak and it was gone.

"No," He assured her, and she couldn't put into words how relieved that made her, "I only know you." And just as quickly as the relief came, it faded, "I suppose you must know who I am now, though I told you from the start."

She frowned, feeling as if the statement was a jab at how long it took for her to figure out who he was, and ignoring the frantic beating of her heart she spat, "Voldemort is a ridiculous name."

He certainly wasn't smiling then, his face like stone as he stared up at her with intense dark eyes, "It is the only name I am known by that I have chosen for myself," He informed her, a warning in his tone that suggested their discussion of his chosen title was over as far as he was concerned. She didn't see the point of pushing further, as she truthfully didn't care what ridiculous title he preferred.

Instead, she swallowed any nervousness or fear and said, "I know quite a lot about you now."

"Good," He replied, "It was never my intention to hide from you."

"Just to terrify me." She challenged. His jaw twitched.

"I was trying to alert you to my presence in a way that would convince you I was not a figment of your imagination—"

"And is that why you killed Cormac?" She pressed, a complicated mix of delighted and frightened when she saw the tendons on his neck stand out and the corner of his jaw twitch, even the mention of his name causing him to tense. Frightened because she wasn't sure what he would do when angry, what he was capable of, and delighted because it made her feel more in control to see any effect she had on him.

"No," He said, "I killed Cormac because I wanted to." She opened her mouth to retort, but he continued, "But somehow I doubt the death of a man you don't even like is what drove you to meet me here, and I would suggest you ask what you really want to know before we run out of time."

"Time?" She echoed, "How much time do we have?"

"Until you wake up."

The reply surprised her only because she had expected something worse, something nefarious. She had expected him to have something horrible planned and that was the reason they were running out of time. So with his reply, she had to take a quiet moment to collect herself before leaning back on the couch and kicking her legs—which had been tucked up in the same way she had fallen asleep—so that she was sitting properly on the couch. "Could you keep me asleep if you wanted?"

"Only if you asked." He hadn't moved from his place couched on the floor, which she found odd only because it left him looking up at her in a way that was decidedly not intimidating. She would think he would want to look down on her, or crowd her, or make her uncomfortable. She swallowed and looked away.

"I know who you are, what you probably want," She told him, intent on continuing their conversation because the thought of how deliberately he was positioned to make her feel at ease was making her feel decidedly ill at ease, "I know you're trapped in a prison Dumbledore made and have likely destroyed most of the horcruxes—how did you—?"

"I am the ruler of hell," He reminded her before she could even finish her question, and so enraptured was she in his answer that she didn't notice his hand rest on the outside of her thigh, "And everything in it. My trusted followers found and destroyed all they could."

"Demons?" She guessed, but she already knew she was right so she didn't wait for a response as she continued, "I assume the more objects they broke the weaker your prison became—but why this house?"

He hesitated in his answer, and she realized he had gotten much closer. She had only been briefly distracted, enraptured in the facts of the situation, in putting together puzzle pieces that she learned from Dumbledore or Voldemort, finally wrapping her head around what still seemed like madness, but at least madness she could understand. But it seemed he had taken immediate advantage of her distraction—as she always fell victim to when figuring something out—to physically close in on her, and she wondered with amazement how she couldn't have noticed his hands on her legs, just above her knees, long fingers spayed across her thighs, burning through the fabric of her jeans. He still remained beneath her, knelt at her feet in a way that she couldn't deny she might've liked if it wasn't him.

"Why—" Her voice was shaking, so she took a small moment to collect herself before continuing much more strongly, "I know we called you here, but—you had to have already been near. It wasn't as if we specifically called for you, we only called for anyone, so why were you here? Why this house?"

"Surely you know." He said, and she felt herself bristle at his words, as if she was missing something obvious.

"No, I don't." She snapped, "You were trapped there for years, I can only assume it must be fairly recent that your _followers_ —" She purposely used his terminology, "—have had any success, and I don't understand why the first place you reach out to wouldn't be Dumbledore's office—the man who captured you and the man who has one of the very things keeping you trapped just sitting there on his bookshelf—"

His expression changed almost instantaneously, his chin tilting upwards and his brow pulling together, the fingers on her legs tensing to the point where they were very nearly digging into her thighs, "Does he?"

She hesitated, seeing no point in lying since she had already admitted it but also not wanting to aid him in any way, and then she firmly carried on, "So what does this house have to do with anything? It doesn't make any sense."

"I am trapped in this house because it was where I was called," He said, "Yes, this is my first foray into the human world since being trapped, yes I was only able to make it here because the objects are one by one being destroyed, it is my assumption that there are likely only two left." He shifted, straightened his back so that he neared her, and she remained still in an attempt to appear nonplussed. Truthfully, she was preparing herself to throw his hands off of her and spend the rest of her dream running from him if he moved any closer than he was. "But it has nothing to do with this house." She watched his lips move instead of his eyes, her heart slamming against her ribcage and her skin crawling under the heat of his stare, "I came because you called."

"That doesn't make any sense—" She started, shaking her head, and she readied herself to move back away from him, to stand and walk away so she didn't feel so caged, but his hands kept her still, slid upwards so that his palms pressed down against the top of her thighs to keep her still.

"I could see you." He said, "Even trapped, even before the first horcrux was destroyed, I could always _see_ you." She furrowed her brow, watching his expression as he spoke, the minuscule movements of his brow, the slant of his mouth. She wondered how someone could possibly be so inexpressive, so impossible to read.

"I have never considered myself immune to the temptations of worldly desires," He continued, keeping her pinned under his hands and his stare, "All my existence I have found myself relentlessly pursuing what I want, and I _want_ ," His voice had taken on a breathy sort of tone, " _So_ much," She could have pushed him away, could have kicked her legs out and put as much distance as she could between them, and she wasn't sure she would ever be able to explain why she didn't, why she let him get so close that she could count the lashes that lined his dark eyes. "I have wanted power," He continued "I have wanted knowledge and revenge and prestige and I have wanted to watch the world burn." His eyes moved between hers, And in her head she was already putting the pieces together, trying to make sense of the way he answered her questions in as little detail with as many words as possible. She thought she knew what he was going to say, and she didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear what drew him back to the world, what he focused on while he was trapped in that cage that his body still dwelled in. She didn't want to hear it, didn't want to hear him admit it— "And still there is nothing I have ever wanted even half as much as I have wanted you."

Her hands flattened against his shoulders and she shoved him away, her legs kicking out so that he was shoved backwards against the table across from the couch. Once he was far enough away that she could move, she rose to her feet and nearly tripped over herself moving away, but the moment she did so the room seemed to have fallen into chaos. She had forgotten it was a dream, everything seemed so real, but now her ears were ringing and she couldn't see, the room was spinning, and when he caught her wrist to turn her around and press her against the wall his skin was scorching on hers.

And his eyes were red.

"Stop it," He ordered, one of his hands smoothing over her hair and then tensing to keep her still when she tried to turn her head away, "Calm down or you'll wake up."

"Get off of me," She demanded, jerking against him so that his hand tightened in her hair, "I don't care what you want." She spat, "You have made my life hell and ruthlessly killed a man, The only thing I care about is making sure your followers never get to the last horcrux—you can rot in that prison for the rest of your miserable existence—"

"Do you have it?" He asked, his face falling into his first genuine, unbridled expression of shock that she had seen on him yet, and she stilled in her struggling because of it. His lips tipped up at one side briefly, a bemused sort of beaming joy, "You took it. You have it."

"You'll never get your hands on it." She told him fiercely, "Your hands will never leave your _cage_ —" His hand moved from her hair to wrap around her throat, just underneath her jaw so he could tilt her face up to keep her eyes on his. He looked angry, she realized, a quiet, vicious sort of anger that hid behind a mask of indifference. It was the first time she had seen him look that way.

"This is bigger than you, Hermione," He said, and the sound of her name from his lips made her hair stand on end, her heart already jumping out of her throat. She didn't understand the way he held her, looked at her, even in anger, and she didn't understand the way the burn of his skin on hers didn't repel her like it should. She was terrified, afraid of what he wanted, afraid of what he would do to get to it, but even when he was so close, she didn't fear his presence, didn't react in the way that she should. "I am asking you not to interfere in that which does not concern you—"

"And I am telling you that I will _die_ before I let you roam this earth—"

His hands shifted, the one at her throat moved so that his thumb pressed against her cheek bone and his fingers wound through the hair behind her ear, and his other hand lifted to mirror it on the other side of her head. He held her still, and he was so close she was afraid to breath lest it cause his lips to brush against hers. Similar to when she had broken away from him, when she had been afraid and stressed, her ears were ringing and she felt lightheaded and lost. She wondered if that was a sign of her waking up, of this dreamland fading away. Voldemort—or Tom or Lucifer or the devil or whatever he was called—held onto her with a desperation that he kept clamped behind tight lips and bright red eyes. "No you won't," He told her, and she couldn't tell if it was a promise or a warning, but his lips remained barely a breath away from hers, and she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the thunderous beating of her heart and the glowing red of his eyes. "You won't."

When she woke she swore for a moment she could still feel his hands on her head, his body against hers, and when she threw herself off the couch her heart was still beating so painfully hard against her ribs she feared it would seize up and she would die right there on her living room floor. How fitting, to have made it this far and to just die because her own heart couldn't put up with the misery of it all.

She gasped for air, her breath stuttered by dry, panicked sobs, as she hurried around the couch and stumbled toward the front door. She was sweaty and panicked and exhausted, and all she wanted was to get out of that house and away from him. She picked up her backpack on the way, she could use that journal to learn everything Dumbledore knew, use it with the knowledge she had of the Voldemort she knew, she could burn this house to the ground if it meant keeping him away form her and she could protect that journal with her very life, take it and move somewhere far away where no one would ever find her—

She turned the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. "No," She muttered, pulling at the door with all her might, "No, no, no, no—" She kicked at the door, "Let me out!" She demanded, "Let me out of here!" The room felt freezing, and she wasn't sure if it had been that way since before she woke up or if it had only just happened now that she had angered him, now that she was trying to get away. He knew she had the journal, and if he was correct in his assumptions it was only this and one other object keeping him locked away. Could he destroy it now, she thought? She held the backpack against her chest and sank to the floor, her back against it, her knees tucked up to her chest—he would have to kill her first.

She heard three solid knocks at the door.

"Hermione?" She couldn't breathe. No, no, no, no, no—

"Hermione!"

—

 **ummmMMM? I DONT EVEN KNOW**

 **this was so much more exposition heavy than i intended, tbh she as never gonna go to dumbledore in the first place and she was gonna figure shit out on her own but there was a lot of backstory that was never gonna be realized but then every way i tried to write the beginning of this chapter was wrong because i was like whY WOULD HERMIONE GRANGER JUST WALTZ BACK INTO HER HOUSE WITHOUT REASON OR INFORMATION LIKE THAT IS SUCH A HARRY THING TO DO TBH NOT HERMIONE**

 **So then this happened IDK I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT! I know it's been so so so so so so so soooooo LONG since I've updated but life was kind of crazy for a while and then when it quieted down I have been so busy with NO WRITING for like two weeks so then it took me FOREVER to get back into the swing of writing things and just like…sitting down and cranking it out u feel?**

 **SO ANYWAY ENOUGH OF MY USELESS AND UNINTERESTING RAMBLINGS i hope you guys liked the chapter? idk next chapter will be the last one for sure, so we got one more chapter of a bunch of DUMB SHIT going down in this GOD FORSAKEN house**

 **LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! YOU'RE REVIEWS ARE LOVELY AND GENEROUS AND THEY KEEP ME GOING AND INSPIRE ME AND I LOVE ALL OF YOU ALSO WOW THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 100 REVIEWS?! THAT IS SO GREAT I LOVE YOU SO MUCH THANK YOOOOOUUUUUUU! AHHHH!**

 **I LOVE EACH ADN EVERY ONE OF U GLORIOUS PERSONS I WISH U ALL HAPPINESS AND HUGS UNLESS U DONT LIKE HUGS THEN I WISH U HAPPINESS AND HIGH FIVES OK GOODNIGHT**

 **(also i didnt proofread because as usual i am a piece of shit but this piece of shit loves u bunches)**


	4. Chapter 4

She recognized the voices immediately—and there are two of them—and she had never been filled with such extreme feelings of fear and anger at once in her life.

She had told them to stay away. She told them to stay in Brighton. But of course they didn't listen, they never listened to her, they never listened to a damn word she said—

"Hermione!" Harry called, pounding on the door. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't leave, she wasn't able, but she wasn't even sure she wanted to try and open that door if it meant Ron and Harry would get caught up in this. She had survived thus far, Voldemort didn't seem particularly interested in killing her, but the only other person who had been in this house since he entered it was Cormac and he was dead, she could never forgive herself if anything happened to Harry and Ron.

"Go away!" She yelled.

"Hermione, open the door!" Harry demanded, "What's going on? Why were you screaming?"

"Leave me alone!" She snapped, "I told you not to come, get away from here!"

He didn't answer except to slam his fist against the door again, she turns her head to peer into the living room where she can see Ron at the window, peering in and likely trying to discern what was going on, and she debated running over the close the curtain, when she felt something wrap around her ankle and she was suddenly dragged away from the door, her shirt riding up so that the carpet burned against her back. She screamed before she could stop herself, holding the bag tight against her chest, and it was obvious the boys heard her because suddenly there was loud, solid thumps against the door, as if they were both throwing themselves against it.

Then the most peculiar thing happened, peculiar only because it was the last thing she expected. The door, previously glued shut, suddenly swung open, and Ron and Harry stumbled in, sprawling on the floor with Harry on top of Ron. Hermione rolled onto her stomach, the backpack beneath her, whatever had gripped her ankle was gone and she barely managed to rise to her knees before the door slammed shut again.

"No!" She cried out, hurrying back toward the door and even stepping on Ron's hand as him and Harry tried to get up, falling over each other and looking equal parts confused and terrified. Hermione ignored them, pulling at the door knob and panicking when it was stuck, stuck again with all three of them inside. He did this on purpose, she thought, this was a threat. He was threatening her—give me the book or your friends die—her hands curled into the fabric of her backpack that she clutched against her chest. She wouldn't give it to him.

"Hermione what the hell is going on—" Ron started. The two of them had finally scrambled to their feet, both staring at her with wide eyes as she stood, terrified and furious, in front of the closed front door. "Why were you screaming, what—"

But he didn't finish. The lights started flickering—none of them had been on before, the room was lit enough by the fading light of the afternoon, but now they flickered on and off—the television turned on, the three of them went quiet and looked around them with wide eyes. Hermione was waiting, waiting for him to follow through on his threat, waiting for something horrible to happen as her mind groped for a solution.

"What's going on?" Harry asked, but Hermione didn't answer. She felt chilled, and if she focused she could feel him there, feel his presence, and she wondered if this was some kind of final warning. Like he was waiting to see if he would cooperate for her friends' sake, waiting to see if she would do as he asked.

"Hermione!" Ron snapped, though his tone lacked the ferocity that she was certain was intended, sounding rather frightened instead, "What the fuck is going on—"

She didn't know what to do. She couldn't put them in danger but she couldn't hand the journal over. The moment she handed that to him there would be only one horcrux left to keep him in his cage, and she would absolutely not be held responsible for the return of the antichrist. She couldn't. She wouldn't help him.

Her ears started ringing, and she realized that they always did that before something went wrong. She met Harry and Ron's terrified gazes with her own panicked one.

The television burst, a shower of glass and sparks spilling out to the floor along with a rather large bang, and it fell forward to the floor with a crash. Hermione screamed, Ron let out an impressive slew of curses, and Harry reached for the umbrella resting against the wall by the door and held it up as a weapon, though Hermione didn't really think it would do him much good.

"What the hell was that?" Ron demanded, his voice rising three pitches.

"Shut up," Hermione ordered, her voice shaking. Her ears were still ringing and she still had no idea what to do.

"But—"

"Shut up, Ron." She said a bit more hysterically. The ringing in her ears got louder and louder, she remembered what Cormac looked like, his body bent and bloodied, and the thought that it could be Harry or Ron next sent her into an absolute panic. She slid the backpack onto her front, sliding her arms through the straps and grabbing the umbrella from Harry's hands. "What are you waiting for, you bastard?" She called out, ignoring Harry and Ron's shocked expressions. She walked through the living room, the lights still flickering, the umbrella brandished like a weapon. "I have your bloody journal—let them go!"

"Hermione—" She heard Harry say, concern and fear wound up in his throat, and he moved toward her with one hand outstretched as if trying to calm a raging animal. She turned toward him, but she was momentarily distracted by the mirror that hung on the wall by the bookshelf. She froze, because Harry had gotten close enough that she could see him in the reflection, but it wasn't him. He looked like a corpse, his arm that reached for her was rotten, parts of it she could see straight to the bone, blood coated his face and he—

She turned to face him, and he looked normal, if not concerned and afraid. Her ears were ringing so loud she couldn't think, and they both turned back to the mirror and when she saw his reflection again, rotted and bloody and horrific, his eyes were red, red just like—

She raised the umbrella and slammed it against the mirror, smashing the glass. The ringing stopped.

Harry closed in on her immediately, taking the umbrella from her hands and holding her by the forearms to keep her still, trying to meet her eyes. She stared at the mirror, saw the two of them reflected in the broken pieces of glass and wondered why he had stopped.

"Hermione—" Ron started, approaching her at Harry's side but staring at the broken mirror in horror. "That—"

"The kitchen," She choked out, "Move, move, we have to—" She didn't finish, opting instead to grab Harry's arm and reach across him to grab Ron, dragging them both to the kitchen and shutting the door.

"Hermione, what is going on?" Harry asked for what must've been the fifth time, she knew they had asked her time and time again, and she was so frustrated because she didn't have time to explain everything and she shouldn't have to, they shouldn't be here, they put themselves in danger all because they never bloody listened.

"Shut up," She spat at them, digging through the cabinets to find a large container of salt. She didn't even know if it would do any good, she read online that salt could repel demons but this wasn't a demon and she didn't even know if what she found was true, but she was desperate to keep him out. He had gone silent, for some reason, had left them alone. There was no ringing in her ears or strange prickling at the back of her neck and she knew he must be planning, plotting, deciding what he would do, who he would kill first. "I told you to stay away! Why can't you ever bloody listen—"

"We thought you were having a bloody breakdown or something!" Ron argued, his face flushing with anger, "Why the hell wouldn't we come?"

"Because I asked you not to!" She snapped, dumping out the contents of the salt container on the floor around the perimeter of the room, feeling ridiculous but needing to do something. "Now he's probably going to kill you all because you never listen to me!"

"What are you on about?" Harry demanded with much less anger than Ron, though still sounding equally panicked.

"It's the house," She explained quickly, sliding the backpack off her arms and reaching in for the journal, "It's haunted. I know how that sounds coming from me but it is, and it's the devil."

"What—" Ron practically shrieked.

"He wants this," She explained quickly, pulling out the journal and reaching into the front pocket of her backpack and puling out a rosary, wrapping it around the journal. "We can't let him have it—"

"Have you lost your mind—" Ron demanded.

"I know how it sounds!" She snapped, throwing the journal in the sink and pouring the rest of the salt around it, completely guessing. She had no idea what she was doing. "Do you really think I would believe it if there was any other explanation?"

"What do you mean it's the devil?" Harry asked, "Like a demon?"

"No, no," She said resolutely, turning about in the kitchen and wondering what to do next, how to get out. "Trust me, it's the devil." She moved toward the glass door, stepping out of the salt circle to try and pull it open, but it wouldn't budge.

"Oh bloody hell," Ron griped, "This is because of your fucking book, isn't it?"

Hermione picked up a wooden chair by the kitchen table and glared at Ron with every ounce of animosity in her body and said, "No, this is because of your _bloody Ouija board!_ " As she proceeded to slam the wooden chair against the glass. Both boys jumped back, Ron yelping as she did it again.

"Hermione, it's not working!" Harry called out as she did it again, and again, knowing she looked mad but not really caring. "What are we supposed to do?"

"I don't bloody know!" She snapped, dropping the chair when it was clear enough that the screen wouldn't break. "You need to stay with me. He won't kill me, but he'll kill you if he gets the chance—"

"What do you mean he won't kill you—" Ron started, but Hermione cut him off.

"I don't have time to explain everything!" She snapped, but whatever she wanted to say next got caught in her throat. The room was cold again, freezing, and the three of them froze with it. "Do you feel that?" She asked.

"It's cold," Harry said, "Does that mean—"

"I don't know," She admitted, "I don't know what he'll do. He might just kill you both to get it over with."

"That's bloody comforting, thanks." Ron spat, looking around the room nervously, taking a step back as if he wasn't sure where to stand, where the safest spot would be.

"Ron, don't get too close to the door." She warned, and he turned to see the knives that she still hadn't removed from the wall. He swore, but before either could question him she said, "Yes, he did that."

"What are you bloody well still doing here?" Ron wheezed, "Why didn't you leave."

"I was going to," She snapped, though she knew she might not've been stuck here like this if she hadn't been so tempted with the Oujia board. If she had just grabbed Crooks and left like she was supposed to she might've been far enough away that none of them would be standing here afraid to die. "Just step away from the door—"

"Hermione, the journal," Harry reminded her, and she quickly moved toward it where it lay in the sink. She was shaking it was so cold, and her ears were ringing again, quietly but slowly building. "Will any of this really keep him away?" Harry asked, "Isn't this stuff for demons? He's not—"

"I don't know, Harry." She interrupted, "I don't know what I'm doing, I'm just trying not to let you two die—"

The door of the kitchen slammed open, and all the salt she had hoped might do something scattered around the floor and in the air. Harry and Hermione both ducked down, Hermione's hand pressed over the diary in the sink even as she fell to the floor and squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the clattering of something, like the cabinets opened and shut and everything spilled out, she heart the shattering of glass and she heard Ron yelp again and the slam of a door and finally everything stopped.

"Shit," She heard Harry swear quietly, and Hermione opened her eyes to see the mess in her kitchen. Glasses and mugs and plates lay in shattered pieces across the floor. She rubbed at her face, felt the salt against her skin and she was sure it was in her hair as well.

And Ron was gone.

"Ron?" She muttered, and then much louder, filled with much more fear, "Ron?" She pulled herself up, saw the journal was still there since she had held it down in the sink, but the rosary had snapped and when she lifted it to press it against her chest it fell off and remained in the sink, some of the seeds sliding off.

"Ron?!" Harry bellowed, moving toward the door.

"Harry no!" She cried out, "You can't, he's trying to lure us out, if you go running after him he'll kill you!"

"He'll kill Ron!" Harry argued.

"I know, just—just let me think! I'm trying to think!" She threaded her fingers into her hair, it felt crusty and dry and coated in salt. Great, she thought, salt doesn't work, rosaries don't work, nothing works to keep them safe. They were sitting ducks, there was nothing they could do, they—

"Give me the journal." Harry demanded, holding out his hand that wasn't resting on the doorknob, ready to run after Ron. "You said he wanted it. Give it to me."

"No!" She shook her head, pressing the book against her chest. "He wants to destroy it, and if he destroys it, he's one step closer to coming back!"

"Coming back?" Harry's brow furrowed, "What are you on about—"

"I don't have time to explain!" She shook her head, "But he can't get this. We can't let this be destroyed!"

"He's going to kill Ron!" Harry cried.

"I know!" Hermione cried in return, "I know, just—" She turned her attention to the floor, and saw that the contents of her backpack had been strewn across the floor. There among the glass and ceramic pieces on the floor, Hermione saw the satanic bible staring up on her. She hurried to pick it up, "Maybe there's something in here—"

"Are you joking?" Harry asked, his voice still raised and frightened, "What, you think we can use a satanic ritual to protect us from _satan_?"

"It's not _satanic_!" She spat back, too panicked to elaborate as she held the journal underneath the book and flipped through the pages, "But he talks about magic, and maybe—"

"Oh, so we're going to cast some satanic magic to—"

"I'm trying to find a solution where we don't die, Harry—"

They both went quiet when they heard a scream.

"Ron!" Harry bellowed, tearing open the door. Hermione dropped the book to the floor, the journal still held tightly in one hand while her other hand grabbed Harry's arm to stop him.

"No, Harry!" She said, "It might not be him. It might be in our heads. He can make us see and hear things that aren't—"

"I can't just sit in here while he's—" Another scream, throaty and terrified, it caused Hermione's arms to break out in goosebumps.

"Harry, he killed your parents!" She said desperately, trying to convince him to stay, trying to convince him to let her think, let her plan. She was terrified too, she didn't want Ron to get hurt, but if they went charging after him then both of them would die. Harry froze, turned and stared at her with wide green eyes, horrified.

"What?" He breathed.

"Tom Riddle." She told him, "Voldemort, he was in human form and Dumbledore—"

"Dumbledore—" He muttered.

"Dumbledore and your parents were trying to lock him away, and they did, but they died." Harry looked shaken, his hand still on the doorknob, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. "They died to lock him away—we can't—we can't just let him back out—"

"Why didn't he tell me?" He asked quietly, "Why did he never say—"

"I don't know." She said helplessly, "I don't know, but we can't—we have to—we have to think, Harry—"

"I don't care." Harry interrupted, and Hermione was shocked into silence. His eyes were fixed resolutely on his feet, his mouth set in that determined way it got when he knew Hermione would disagree with him but he didn't care. "My parents died for this," He echoed, sounding as if he wasn't certain whether or not to believe her. He lifted his eyes but they didn't meet hers, they fixed on the journal. "I'm not about to let Ron die for it, too."

He took the journal, ripped it from her hands and was out the door before she could stop him. "Harry, no—" She started, but the door slammed shut again. "Harry!" She called after him, pulling at the door, placing her foot against the wall beside it and pulling it with all her might. He had let Harry go for a reason, he now had them all separated and he could do whatever he wanted, and Harry was about to give him exactly what he came for. "Harry come back!"

She pulled a knife from the door, dug it into the crack between the door and the doorway, trying to force it open but the knife just slid out and she nearly sliced her own wrist on accident. "Let me out, you demonic bastard!" She demanded, knowing it did her no good but feeling so furious and helpless and—her friends were going to die, he was going to kill them and there was nothing she could do, she—

The door opened so suddenly that she flew back, sprawled across the floor with the broken glass. She hit her head on the counter, felt the glass pierce into the skin of her back. It hurt, but it didn't dissuade her from pushing herself back up, ignoring the throbbing head ache and focusing on the open door.

It was dark. Had the sun already set, she wondered? The room outside the kitchen seemed to impossible daunting and Harry was nowhere to be seen, nor was Ron. She rose to her feet, wincing at the pain that bloomed across her back but otherwise ignoring it. She moved forward into the silent room. She heard no screaming, not from Ron nor from Harry, not even Harry screaming Ron's name.

"Harry?" She called worriedly, "Ron?" Her voice seemed to echo, reverberating through the dark and dismal room so that she could hear no response except for her own words repeated back to her. It was dreadfully quiet. No voices, no ringing in her ears, it was so quiet she was forced to listen to the pounding of her heart and each fearful, shaking breath expelled from her lungs. After a moment, she stopped walking, her head still throbbing as she considered calling out his name, but she still wasn't sure what to call him. She had called him Voldemort to some, called him satan and the devil, in her head she had called him Tom, sometimes, but never out loud. So many names and none of them seemed right for her to speak, none of them seemed real.

He wouldn't be Voldemort, that was a title used by those who followed him. But he was Tom Riddle once, he was Tom Riddle before he was locked away.

Carefully, she called, "Tom?"

She heard a thump and she jumped, turned her attention to the cupboard where the noise had originated and swallowed down her fear. She didn't creep forward, didn't take her time but rushed forward instead, throwing open the door before she had a chance to second guess herself.

A stack of boxes fell forward, a stack which had originally fallen against the door now spilling out onto the floor. They slammed into her legs, knocking her over as the contents—papers and miscellaneous objects and photographs that had been put into storage—now scattered across the floor. She swore, frustrated with herself for being so afraid of a few bloody boxes, and pushed herself to her feet, stepping over the boxes and hurrying toward the staircase.

No more fear, no more carefulness. She wanted to find her friends, to make sure they were okay, this silence was driving her mad. She took the stairs two at a time and it only seemed to get darker, the silence more suffocating. She threw open the door to her own room, but no one was there, so she followed up with the next room and the bathroom and her parents room but—there was no one around. Everything was silent and still and dark, her heart pounding in her ears as she stood in the middle of her parents bedroom wondering—"No," She muttered, "No this isn't—where is—this doesn't make sense—"

She turned. In the doorway stood Ron, but—but it wasn't Ron. His face was so pale, his hair flopping into his face, the sides matted with blood. In fact he was covered in it, not dripping like Tom in her dream but soaked, as if he had been lying in it, and his chest—his chest was ripped open, gaping, broken ribs and blood and tissue and—Hermione screamed. She took a step back and tripped, sprawled on the ground staring up at him in terror.

"Why did you come back?" He choked, taking an unbalanced step forward as Hermione dragged herself back. Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head, unable to look away but oh god, oh god this was—

This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. He was in her head again, making her see things, this wasn't—"No, no, no, stop!" She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

"Why couldn't you just leave it be? You had to have your bloody questions answered and now we're all dead—"

"Get out of my head!" She demanded, her voice breaking, and she tried to push herself up but her foot slipped. He was still advancing on her but she couldn't lift her eyes, she didn't want to see him again, she couldn't bear it.

"You've killed all of us." He spat, "He only wanted you. And now because of that we're all dead—"

"No!" She finally got to her feet, threaded her fingers through her hair and she wouldn't look at him, she wouldn't, he wasn't real, and her throat burned with the effort when she demanded, "Stop it!"

She didn't open her eyes but the silence was enough to tell her that he wasn't there. She ran blindly forward, back toward the door he used to hover in front of, the image of him burned into her mind. She still didn't look up when she ran into the hallway, she didn't want to see what else he showed her, she didn't want to see anything, she just wanted this to be over, she—

Something grabbed her arm and she jerked away. She lifted her eyes to see who it was, but her world was spinning before she could. She had stepped back from whoever grabbed her, and her foot suddenly met air, and she fell back. It took her two collisions with the ground to realize she was tumbling down the stairs, her already throbbing head colliding with the wall on the way down and her wounded back screaming with each impact.

She hit the ground winded, staring up at the ceiling trying to catch her breath. She turned her head but whoever had grabbed her at the top of the stairs wasn't there anymore, only darkness. She had to get up, she had to figure out what was happening. She had to figure out where her friends were and get them out, she had to find that journal, she—

When she sat up, Harry stood at the far end of the living room, facing her. He was nearly hidden by the shadows, but he was there, unharmed, holding the journal in his hands. "Harry," She choked, pushing herself up despite the ache in her body, "Harry," But she had nothing else to say, she couldn't think, she was so relieved—

"I'm ending this." He told her. She used the banister to pull herself to her feet.

"Harry," She said again, warningly this time, "Harry, don't." He wouldn't look at her, his eyes fixed on the journal, and he opened it, held each side in his hands as if he planned to—"Harry, no, you're only giving him what he wants!"

She ran toward him, but she was barely halfway there when he ripped at the pages, tore the whole thing apart. A fire sparked in his hands, swallowing the journal in orange and yellow flames, and then suddenly they swallowed him, too. The flames lit up the whole room and threw her back, and she couldn't see him anymore, he was swallowed up in the too-too-bright light of the flames and she couldn't see him, he was gone.

She laid back, pressed her hands over her face, "Not real," She told herself. "Not real, it's not real, it's—" But she could feel the heat of the flames, she could see the light behind her eyes if she moved her hands, it felt real, it always felt real.

She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her hand against the floor to push herself to her feet but her hand landed on a photograph and she slipped, falling back to the ground. She tried to pull herself up again, shaking the photograph off when it stuck to her hand. It fell to the ground underneath her, and—

She stopped. Everything stopped. The fire and the light was gone, the heat was gone, she was left with nothing but the faded light of the moon to see with but she could still see that photograph, staring up at her. With a shaking hand she reached for it, lifted it to the light that drifted in from the window.

Her parents, she noted. But not just her parents, because standing in between them with a congenial smile was Father Dumbledore.

She felt a hand at her arm again, and this time when she jerked away there were no stairs to fall down. She turned and nearly fell back, catching herself on her hands. Tom Riddle was crouched beside her in the dark, quiet room.

He examined her for a moment, eyed her from the top of her head to her toes, before fixing his gaze on her face again and reaching out. She didn't move, and his hand brushed against her cheek. The faint sting at the contact told her she probably had a cut there as well.

"I apologize," He said, "I did not mean for you to be hurt."

She slapped his hand away. "Where are my friends?"

"Unharmed," He answered promptly, "As of yet."

She furrowed her brow, "Then why—" But she couldn't voice it. Why the images? Why the threats? But she realized with a sudden sort of clarity, "I'm dreaming." He didn't answer, but his very presence was proof that she was right. He couldn't appear to her if she was awake, he could only make his presence known through the house. "But when—" She thought, and she lifted a shaking hand to the back of her head, remembering when she slammed her head against the kitchen counter. That was when everything changed, everything went dark and quiet then.

"You fell back and hit your head," He told her when she pulled her fingers away and there was blood. She imagined that, she realized. She might be bleeding in reality, but here she made it up. Had she made up Harry and Ron, too? In this dream had that been her or him?

"Let us go." She told him instead, "Harry has your stupid horcrux and he's going to destroy it, so just let us go, you have what you want already."

"No," He answered immediately, and he was close, closer than she realized. He was crouched by her feet, her knees were bent and she leaned back on her hands away from him. She wanted him further away, she couldn't think when he was this close to her. "No, I don't."

She didn't react with an answer. Instead, she lifted her foot and planned to kick him in the chest, push him away form her, but he caught her foot in his hand. His hand slid to her ankle and he pulled, dragged her closer so that her hands slid out from underneath her and she was flat against the floor and he loomed over her, his other hand pressing against her throat. It reminded her of that morning in her bed, after Cormac, that strange gentle hand and the man that she thought was a figment of her imagination. She didn't understand, she didn't know who he was and who she was and she didn't understand the way she felt and Dumbledore knew her family and she didn't _understand_ —

"Hermione," Tom seethed, "I think it's time you stop being defiant simply for the sake of defiance."

"Get off of me," She demanded, pushing against his shoulders, "You can have your horcrux, I don't care anymore, just leave me and my friends alone—"

"Is that what you think will happen?" He asked, pressing his hand firmly against her throat. It wasn't enough to stop her breathing, but it was enough to stop her pushing. "When I escape this prison, you think you'll be free of me? That I'll just let you go?" His hand, the one that had wrapped around her ankle to pull her closer, suddenly unfurled. He slowly, almost distractedly, dragged his finger up the front of her shin, "I won't let you go," He told her, "You're mine."

She jerked her leg, jammed her knee into his side. It didn't throw him off her but it did move him, and she pushed at his shoulder and at his side in order to push him to the side and to the ground, flat on his back. She moved with him, landing on top of him, and she hurried to scramble off. "I am not yours." She spat, "I don't belong to you—"

His hands caught the back of her knees and pulled her back down, sitting up so that they were chest to chest. Her hands pushed him away at his shoulders, but he pinned her in place with his hands on her legs so she couldn't push him far away. His expression was a strange merge of murderous and beseeching, it was a look she had never seen before on anyone. "You don't understand," He told her, and she was sick and tired of him saying that. "You were made for me." She pushed violently away, so he lifted his hand to catch her wrists and trap them against his chest. "Just as a rib was taken from Adam to create Eve, don't you see?" She didn't see, but she didn't move, she sat very still and watched the way his eyes flashed between black and red. "You were created for me." Something coiled in her stomach, discomfort and anger and _something_ , something that bloomed at his touch and made her curl her hands into useless fists. "You _are_ mine," He assured her.

"You're insane." She told him, and she truly believed he was.

"Yes," He agreed, as if he saw no problem with that.

"I don't understand what you want," She told him, and his jaw clenched, his lips pursed, he looked as if he was ready to grow truly angry with her, but he didn't. He was silent for a long time, and Hermione wanted more than anything to move away, but her body betrayed her by remaining horrifyingly still. He didn't move either, it didn't even seem like he moved to breathe.

"Right now," He told her after a moment, and he was so close, so close his nose brushed against her cheek, "I want you to wake up."

She wanted to wake up, too, she wanted to get out of the horrible dream and out of this house and away from him, but she couldn't, she couldn't force herself to wake. She tried, she tried to close her eyes and wait for his grip to fade so she could awake to reality but it didn't fade, she could feel him, his hands on her wrists and his nose against her cheek and his hair against her forehead. She moved, she didn't mean to, but her lips brushed against his and she felt his mouth open and he inhaled, almost like he was breathing her in before—

Her hands unfurled form their fists from the shock and she flexed her fingers, but she didn't pull away when he kissed her. Something happened when he did, something sparked, it shot down her neck and rushed through her veins, like electricity or fire or ice. It could have been ice, that could have explained why she didn't violently push him away but when his lips slid over hers and he opened his mouth she felt something wrap around her, twine itself around the two of them and—oh it was like magic, like a horrible, dark magic that soaked into her skin and lit a fire in her belly, one that spread up into her chest to make her open her lips against his and then shot down between her legs, made her fingers curl into his shirt as she moaned into his mouth.

It was barely a kiss. It was barely more than the press of their mouths together, just lips and breath. But somehow it managed to overwhelm her, and she could barely feel his hands curl too tightly around her wrists, she couldn't remember a time when anything had made her feel so lost, vibrating with energy but so afraid to move—

She woke up.

She sucked in gasping breath after gasping breath, staring up at the kitchen ceiling and she had never felt more ashamed in her life. She pushed herself up, and her back dreamed just as her head throbbed and the room as spinning. She had blacked out when the door threw her back, jut as he had said, but the pain now was worse than it felt in her dream. She reached back, felt her back and winced when her fingers brushed a shard of glass still in her. She pulled it out, letting out a small cry, then reached up to the back of her head.

When she touched the back of her head the room spun even more, the pain so sever she had to turn to the side and dry-heave. She waited for the room to stop spinning, decided not to touch it again, and she shakily pulled herself to her feet. Her body still burned, and not from the injuries, she felt something like a physical weight in her stomach, a reminder of what had happened, of what it had felt like.

She had so many more questions, so many furious questions, but she needed to find her friends. She needed to get out of this house.

The kitchen door was open, so she moved toward it, limping against the pain. "Harry!" She called, "Ron!"

"Hermione!" She heard in reply, followed by the thump of footsteps from upstairs. Harry and Ron came into view halfway down the staircase, Harry supporting Ron and the journal tucked under his arm. Ron had a cut along the side of his head, as if he had slammed into something,, and his ankle was bent at a very unnatural angle, but Harry looked unscathed.

"Something pulled me up," Ron stammered, "It just—it just—pulled me right up and—"

"Are you alright?" Harry asked her, his eyes widening when he saw the state of her. She nodded.

"Where is the journal?" Harry's jaw clenched, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to return it, and Hermione went as quickly as she could back into the kitchen to find her box of matches. She found it quickly, as it was strewn across the floor where it had been emptied out of a drawer, so she grabbed three matches and the box and hurried back in the room. "You're right," She told Harry, and she meant it. She was sick of this, sick of everything, she didn't care if it got destroyed anymore, she just wanted it to be gone, she wanted to get out, she wanted this to be over. "Burn the fucking thing."

Harry nodded, letting Ron lean against the sofa. She cast a wary glance at Ron, who was gripping his side in a way that suggested he was hurt there as well. "Unharmed, my arse." She muttered to herself, unnoticed by Harry who handed the journal to her as if he expected her to destroy it. She took it and threw it on the ground by the staircase.

"Together?" She asked, and Ron nodded, taking a match from her and striking it on the box, followed by Hermione, and finally Harry. She glanced at both of them, though Harry was staring determinedly at the journal on the ground, and she threw hers first.

One match missed, catching on the carpet, but the other two hit their mark. She expected a slow flame, one that would slowly burn at the pages until nothing but ash remained. But rather than that, as soon as the matches hit their mark the flame grew, just like in her dream, it flared up impossibly high and bright and the three of them shied away from it immediately. Ron cried out, and she could only assume he must've gotten burned as the flame licked out toward them.

It was terrifying, so bright she could hardy see, and it seemed to be quickly swallowing up the room, "Come on!" She cried, wrapping her arm around Ron's middle and helping him to the kitchen as Harry came in on the other side. They limped away from the sudden out-of-control flame, and—it was just like in the dream, the way it overtook everything, the only difference was that it hadn't overtaken Harry, but it looked so startlingly similar just the same.

They made it to the kitchen and Hermione's mind was whirling. She thought about her dream, about everything she had seen, everything she thought had been made up. But Ron had been injured, even if they weren't the same injuries form her dream, and Harry hadn't, and the diary went up in those horrible flames, and she—

"Wait!" She said when they reached the kitchen, they were headed for the screen door when she pulled away, running back into the living room.

"Hermione!" Harry called after her, at the same time that Ron shouted, "Hermione, what the hell are you doing?"

She lifted her arm to try and block the heat and the light from her eyes, running toward the cupboard and throwing open the door. The boxes didn't fall this time, but she tipped them over, let them spill across the floor. She saw the box filled with old photographs, watched the contents scatter, and she hurriedly pushed the photos around the floor. The fire was quickly spreading, and she should have just taken the box but she hadn't thought, and now it was on the floor and she had to know, she had to see—

She found it. Her parents and Dumbledore smiling for a photo. It shouldn't matter, it was only a photograph, but he hadn't told her that he knew her parents, and that meant he was keeping something from her. Dumbledore knew more than what he told her, he knew, and he sent her away—

"Hermione!" She heard Harry call, and she hurried to her feet, folding the photo and sliding it into her pocket, running back to the kitchen as the flames spread toward the boxes scattered across the floor.

"I'm sorry," She said, helping Ron again as they moved toward the door. Mercifully, it opened, and Hermione breathed in the outside air, helping Ron outside the door first. He put out his hand to lean against the side of the house, and Hermione moved to follow after him, but the glass door slid shut before she could. She watched Ron turn around in shock, met his eyes and saw the absolute terror before allowing her eyes to slide to Harry at her side.

He didn't look terrified. "Harry…" She called carefully.

He turned his head to face her. "We can't leave yet." He said. Ron slammed a fist against the door and Hermione jumped, her eyes jumping to him and then back to Harry. Harry shifted, moved between her and Ron and started stalking forward, and she stepped back, and his eyes they looked almost—

"Tom." She realized with a growing sense of horror.

"Hermione." He said, and that tone sounded so strange in Harry's voice.

"What are you—how are you—" She stopped herself from getting lost in all her questions. "What do you want?" She asked instead.

"We can't leave yet." He answered.

"You already said that," She spat, "If you get out of my friend, then we can leave just fine."

He was still advancing on her, and a quick glance over her shoulder showed Ron at the screen door trying to force it open. He stopped to bend at the waist, gripping at his side as if in pain, and Hermione felt her back hit the wall behind her as Harry—Tom—continued forward. "The journal is gone," She continued, "Alright? You win."

"Not yet," He said. The door at her back felt warm, and she figured it was only a matter of time before the fire spread to the kitchen. The wall at her back was still embedded with knives, and she contemplated grabbing the one near her hand and using it, but she couldn't hurt Harry. "There's still one more."

"I don't know where the other one is." She told him, attempting to remain calm. "And if we don't leave then Harry and I will die—"

"I could care less about your friend's life." He told her, "But I am unable to destroy horcruxes myself."

"Get your followers to help you!" She told him.

His hands rose, his fingers sliding along her cheeks until his palms held her head still. The expression of anger looked very much out of place on Harry's place, and his eyes were red. "You don't understand," He told her, and she wanted to punch him for it, "Because it has been kept from you." She bristled, thinking of the photograph in her pocket and wondering _what_ had been kept from her, "I can tell you everything." He promised, "But not until I'm free."

"I'd rather remain ignorant for the rest of my life than ever help you." She spat.

He threaded his fingers in her hair, curling his fingers against her skull and pulling tight. She winced but otherwise kept herself silent, "Then I'll kill your friend." He told her simply, and her heart sank to her stomach, "I'll start with the one standing outside, so that Harry—" He spoke that name with a sizable amount of disdain, "—can watch. He can see, you know. He can hear, and feel. I'll let him watch himself beat the life out of the ginger outside." Hermione tried to pull away, tried to push him off, but he pressed his body against her and kept her still, and it as so wrong to see Harry like this, to see him so angry and dark. "Then I'll keep this body," He told her, "How do you think he would like it housing the antichrist in his—"

"I don't know what you want!" She cried, panicked and furious, "I don't know what you want me to do!"

"I want you to help your friend, Hermione." He said smoothly, his voice low and threatening. She didn't understand, did he only want her word? Was she supposed to promise something? She didn't know the other horcrux even if she wanted to destroy it, to bring Tom Riddle back, to bring the antichrist—would she bring the end of the world, too? Ron was still pounding on the window but Hermione couldn't see anything past Harry, past his glowing red eyes. The door was steadily growing hotter and she didn't know what he wanted, why would he just say what he wanted?

And Harry could see, he said. Harry would watch with her as Tom killed and ruined and destroyed, he would watch as he did it with his body, he would—she couldn't subject him to that. But would he want to be the reason she brings the devil to the earth? Would he want her to risk her and Ron's life just for the possibility that he could get her body back?

"Decide quickly," He told her, "Or your ginger friend will have to watch the two of us die instead."

She found that statement odd, not only because she couldn't imagine he would let the two of them die, but also because she hadn't expected Harry to be able to die if Tom was possessing him. The realization that both were equally mortal was somewhat mollifying, but also terrifying, because suddenly she had a choice, a choice she didn't want to consider at all. But she wondered what Harry would want if he could talk to her, what he would decide if he could communicate anything.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife in the wall and she wondered.

"So either Harry and Ron die or they help raise the devil? What kind of choice is that?"

One hand shifted so that his thumb could fan across her cheek, a strange motion of tenderness that accompanied his words when he said, "It's an easy choice. You can end the suffering of your friends. You can protect them."

And she wanted to, she wanted to tell him that she would do anything he asked if he just let them go. She wanted to get Harry and Ron far, far away from everything. She wanted to make everything normal for them again, take them away from all the darkness and horror, she wanted to, she wanted to more than anything.

She met Tom Riddle's eyes and hesitated.

"Harry would rather die." She muttered, and she thought she saw Harry's eyes flash green for a moment, a moment that felt like a confirmation, so she pulled the knife from the wall and plunged it into his chest.

She heard Ron scream from the other side of the glass door, a horrid and desperate sound that seemed to surround her until she felt like she could choke on it. Those red eyes widened, his hands moving to lay over hers on the knife, but he didn't move. Her ears were ringing, and she thought she felt the house shake when she grit her teeth and nearly growled, "Get _out_ of my friend."

She pulled the knife out, his hands falling limp at his sides and his eyes fading to green just before they shut. Her arm wound around his back, catching him as he went limp but he was too heavy for him to hold him up. She lowered him to the ground, and only then did it sink in what she had done, what she had— "Harry," she choked, and she was crying, so suddenly and fiercely she couldn't see, she couldn't breathe, "Harry, I'm so—"

The earth beneath her seemed to shake, adds he couldn't discern if that was real or if it was in her head. Ron was still screaming, pounding on the glass, she could hear him shouting, "What did you do? Harry! Harry! What did you do?" Her body felt numb, her mind hadn't comprehended his still body but she knew, she could see, she pressed her hand against the wound in his chest and Ron was screaming and her ears were ringing and—

She looked up from Harry's body and she saw—something. A figure, but it wasn't human. It stood in front of the glass doors, the light of the moon shining from behind so that it was nothing more than a silhouette. It was a man, she thought, perhaps, but it wasn't, she could see glowing red eyes and—and wings. Wings that stretched across the kitchen so wide and horrifying, she could see even in the dark that they were broken and rotting, as they stretched it sounded like cracking bones, popping joints, she watched feathered glide to the ground along with blood, and—

And it was gone. He was gone. For a single moment everything was silent.

The house gave a loud rumble and then she heard a crash, and the parts of the ceiling started caving in.

She didn't realize Ron was able to get in until he was right there, sliding his arms under Harry's and dragging him, his face twisted with pain as he dragged him out. Hermione jumped and raised her arms to shield her face when something fell beside her, and she hurriedly scrambled up and stumbled to the glass door. The ground was shaking, the world kept spinning and she thought she heard screaming—more than just Ron, because he wasn't even screaming anymore, but just screaming from countless voices in her ears—she tripped when she got out, turned onto her back and scrambled backwards as she watched the house crumble in on itself, the bricks falling off the house one by one and everything caving in as if it imploded.

And then it was over. Where her house used to be, now there was nothing but debris, and the houses on either side still stood proud and tall and untouched. It was the oddest sight, the line of houses now disrupted, an empty space where her house used to be. She turned, saw Ron bent over Harry's body. She hurried toward him, but as soon as she reached his side he threw out his arm and shoved her away. "Stay away from him!"

"Ron…" She stammered, "I'm so—so sorry, I—"

"Just stay away!" He seethed, turning to Harry and putting pressure on his chest, "Oh god, Harry—"

The neighbors had started coming out of their houses, concerned by the noise, and now they stared in shock at the debris. "Call an ambulance!" She called out. Her car sat on the driveway but her keys were somewhere in the brick and wood, "Call the police, please!"

She sank to her knees, exhausted and horrified, and Harry was dead and she could only hope that Tom was thrown back into his prison now that the house was gone but she didn't know, she didn't know, and Harry was dead, she had killed—

She leaned forward and buried her face into her hands and screamed.

—

The ambulance came and hurried Harry in, which was surprising to her because she thought they would declare him dead on the spot. They didn't ask what happened, though it was painfully obvious something had punctured his chest, she supposed they were so shocked by the scene in front of them that they figured he got injured in the destruction of the house.

Ron wouldn't look at her, wouldn't speak to her, she was surprised he didn't start shouting when the authorities arrived, didn't say _It's her, it's her, she killed him, she stabbed our friend!_

They were taken to the hospital. The police asked what happened and she didn't know what to say, neither did Ron, so they said they didn't know, they said there was a fire and then the house fell in on itself and smothered it. No one understood, they said they would inspect the houses, perhaps it was an architectural flaw and the other houses on that street should be checked to be sure it didn't happen again.

Harry went into surgery, and Hermione had demanded to know how he was, "Is he dead? I don't understand, is he alive? Is he going to be okay?" But she was told quite firmly to sit down and let the doctors do their job and wait to see what happened.

She was going out of her mind, but then that was nothing new. Harry was going to die and it was all her fault, Ron wouldn't let her explain and even if he did she didn't think he would understand. It didn't matter, Harry was dead because of her, because she went back and opened that Ouija board, because she couldn't control herself. Harry was dead because of her, because she put the fate of the world before her friends and she wasn't even sure if it was worth it, wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do. So she got her injuries treated—she had the least of it—and then waited for news on Harry, waited and thought and panicked—

"Miss Granger." She raised her head from where it was buried in her hands, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks stained with tears. Dumbledore stood in front of her, his usually twinkling eyes were decidedly dull.

"He's dead." She croaked.

He hesitated. "What happened?"

"It was _him_ ," She seethed, "It was him and you didn't believe me. He wouldn't let us leave and he—he…" She lowered her eyes, "He destroyed the journal."

Dumbledore stood in front of her for a long, quiet moment. Hermione had left the waiting room to to get away from the other people and she found a seat in the hall that led to the toilets, less crowded and quieter. Ron was getting treated for his own injuries, and though she had heard he would be fine, she hadn't checked for herself. She knew he wouldn't want her to. It was silent, except for Hermione's quiet hiccuping breaths. Then he sat beside her.

"I killed him." She told him quietly, barely above a whisper. "It was that or let T—" She paused, frowning, then corrected, "Voldemort live in him. Harry wouldn't have wanted that."

"No," Dumbledore agreed, "He wouldn't."

"You didn't believe me." She told him.

"No, I didn't." He said. "I believed it was impossible."

"You were wrong." She said, not viciously. He didn't answer. "At least he's gone."

It was very quiet for a long time. Then, "Miss Granger," he started, slowly and carefully, "Mr. Weasley said he was stabbed in the heart."

"Yes." She said, her throat closing up for a moment so she had to swallow thickly to stop herself from dissolving into tears again. Dumbledore sighed, a long and tired sound, and Hermione turned to face him, concerned and confused by the sound. Dumbledore looked tired, and worried, and worn. "What is it?" She asked.

"There is something I did not mention," He finally said, "Something I did not believe was prudent." Hermione waited silently for him to elaborate, keeping her eyes on him even as he continued looking ahead of himself. His fingers were threaded together and they rested in his lap, unmoving. "First I would like to say you are correct, I looked into the horcruxes and found they were all discovered and destroyed, except for the journal."

"I know." She told him. "He told me."

Dumbledore faced her. "He spoke to you?"

She frowned. "Yes. He appeared in my dreams, I told you." She paused, "But he said there were two. The journal and another."

Dumbledore looked ahead once more and sighed again. "Yes." He agreed, "You must understand, when Harry's parents and I performed the ritual we were most unprepared. It nearly didn't work." He shifted in his seat, leaning back and still staring ahead instead of looking at her. "As a result, his parents lost their lives, and I, in a desperate attempt to ensure Voldemort's imprisonment, created a final horcrux during the ritual." She waited for him to continue when he paused, a growing sense of dread in her stomach. "I thought, at the time, what better way to trap evil than to use its opposite: innocence. And what is more innocence than a child?"

Hermione felt like he poured ice over her head. "You turned Harry into a horcrux." She muttered.

"Yes." He agreed, as if that wouldn't have been vital information for her to know, as if she hadn't just—

"He wanted me to do it." She realized, "Tom wanted me to—that's what he was doing, he was giving me an impossible choice so that I—he knew that I—" She jumped to her feet but she didn't move, didn't walk anywhere, she couldn't even look at him, "You didn't tell me, you didn't _tell_ me and now I—what have I _done_?"

"Miss Granger—"

"No!" She snapped, standing in front of him so he would look at her, so he would stop avoiding her gaze, "You didn't tell me, and now I freed him, and Harry's dead, all because you want to keep secrets!"

"I told you what I believed was necessary." He argued calmly. Hermione was seething, furiously angry, all of her sadness and despair giving way to frustration and anger. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photo, unfolding it and holding it in front of his face.

"Was this necessary?" She spat, "You knew my parents. You knew me, but I don't know you, and they never mentioned you—so who am I? What role do I play in all of this?"

He was quiet, staring at the photo with a sadness or regret.

"Well?" She pressed furiously.

"I assure you, I know not the role you play—"

"You're lying." She accused, "It's your secrets that caused all of this, and even now you still won't tell me what the hell is going on!"

"Excuse me," A voice interrupted, and Hermione snapped her attention to the woman in scrubs glancing between them. "I'm…sorry to interrupt," She said, turning her attention to Hermione, "But you're a friend of Mr. Potter, correct?"

Hermione nodded solemnly, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"He's in stable condition," Hermione's head rose, her eyes wide and her mind reeling. Stable condition? She didn't hear the following words she said, just those two blessed words echoing in her head over and over and over again.

"Stable?" She repeated. The doctor stopped, fixing Hermione with an understanding smile.

"Yes, stable," She repeated, "It's quite the miracle. His heart was punctured by a sharp object, it stopped beating for several minutes, but the paramedics say the wound seemed almost half-healed—it's likely that it wasn't punctured completely, something might have happened in the collapse of the house, but—well, he's stable, we'll have to keep him here for a while to be certain, and he hasn't regained consciousness yet, but for now it's…it's good news." She smiled, "Very good news indeed."

"Good news." Hermione echoed. "Can I—can I see him?

She didn't look at Dumbledore when she left to follow the doctor.

—

Hermione didn't leave the hospital until Harry woke up, which turned out to be no more than 24 hours.

Ron was stuck in his own hospital bed, otherwise she was certain he would be at Harry's bedside pushing her away. But she was grateful, in a selfish sort of way, they he wasn't there, so she could see when Harry's eyes fluttered open and she saw green instead of red and she felt so relieved she thought she might faint, she thought she might burst with happiness.

"Harry," She breathed, "Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I thought—"

"Hermione?" He said, groggy as he slowly blinked awake.

"Yes, Harry, yes, I'm so sorry—"

"Shut up," He grumbled, and she did, worried that he was angry with her.

"I—I couldn't let him—"

"Hermione," He said quietly, but fiercely, "I know."

She slumped in her seat by his bed, unaware until that moment just how tense her body was.

"I remember it," He told her, "I remember all of it." He turned his eyes to meet hers, "And you were right. I would've rather died than let him use me to hurt you or Ron."

She nodded, not exactly feeling absolved of guilt but grateful for his forgiveness anyway. "I didn't know he could do that." She admitted, "Possess people. I thought that was demons. I thought that was different."

"I think I let him." He confessed, and she curled her fingers around his arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "When I ran after Ron, I saw—everything he _did_ to him. And I thought he would kill him, and I remember thinking I would do anything, anything to make it stop, and I think I said it, too, and—I don't know. Next thing I know I'm not in control of anything, and he's—" He clenched his jaw, "Christ." He sighed, "Figured I'm the only one out of the three of us to ever even talk to a priest in the past year and yet I'm the one who gets possessed by the devil."

"That's not funny." She mumbled.

"Yeah," He shrugged, then winced.

"Ron hates me," She said, not because she was looking for sympathy, but because it was true. Harry offered her a weak smile.

"He won't forever." He told her, "I'll explain it. He'll get over it. He might not let you near me with any sharp objects any time soon, but—"

"Not funny." She said again, leveling him with a loot. He only smiled.

"So, is he gone then?" He asked, "The—devil?"

Hermione hesitated. "I don't know." She admitted truthfully, "I hope so."

"Yeah, me too." He said, "You had the worst of it, you had to deal with him for three days. That must have been…hard."

She didn't know how to respond to that, truthfully, because it had been. It was horrible and terrifying and confusing, she was left with so many questions and she felt sore and tired and angry. She thought of Dumbledore's secrets, she thought of her parents involvement, she thought of how everything seemed to lead her there, to that moment with Harry and that knife in her hand. She thought of her obsession with that book about satanism, she thought of her friendship with Harry, she thought of the death of her parents and the Ouija board and how everything just seemed to cumulate to bring her there, to that moment, with Harry and Tom and her. She thought of the way Tom spoke to her, confusing and insane, equal parts murderous and fond, she thought of the way he seemed to know her, the way he seemed to know so much that he didn't tell her. She thought of Cormac's death, the destruction of her house, her dreams, the last dream she had when she found the picture and the fire and—and she thought of that strange electric feeling that left her fingers tingling when he kissed her—

She shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, and said, "Yeah, it was hard." And then, "I need to go sort out the house." She realized after a moment of Harry's blank expression that he didn't know, so she clarified, "The house is destroyed."

"Destroyed?" He echoed, his brows drawing up in shock, "Shit," He muttered, "Well that's great."

"I have to go and—I think they're bringing men to sort out the mess—"

"Right," Harry agreed. He had a funny, distant look on his face now, and Hermione thought she would try and make her escape now, but he caught her wrist before she did. "Hermione." He started solemnly, "In the house, you said—My parents—"

"Dumbledore is here." She interrupted. "At least he was. I think…I think you should have this conversation with him."

He nodded, and let her go.

Hermione had to get a taxi back home, since she was without her car. It was just as well, because she definitely didn't feel fit to drive, too distracted and exhausted. She had gone through os many emotions in the past few days she just felt numb, sitting in the backseat of the taxi and staring out at London's scenery wondering what the hell would come next. Harry had nearly died, Ron hated her for good reason, all three of them were homeless The devil had likely gotten out of his cage and was roaming the earth, the world might end and it would be all her fault—

And she still didn't know what she had to do with any of this. Tom Riddle seemed to think she was his, and she didn't bloody well know what that meant, but then Dumbledore seemed to think she was something as well, even if he wouldn't tell her. And she felt like something, she felt like something was important, she felt like she was missing some vital clue and she couldn't figure out what it was. She just wanted to know why this seemed to center around her, why the devil was fixated on her, why everyone seemed to die around her.

"Holy fuck—" The taxi driver muttered under his breath when he puled up to the house, "Is this—this isn't you, is it?"

"It is." She sighed, handing him her card. As sorry as he looked for her, he wasn't quite sorry enough to let her have a free cab ride, and he dutifully extracted money from her account before handing her card back.

"Wow, thats…" He seemed lost for words, "I'm—"

"Yes, thank you." She said quickly, opening the door of the cab and slamming it shut before he could finish.

It did look strange and horribly sad. The house she had grown up in was gone, nothing more but rubble, an empty space between two townhouses. Men were spread out amongst the rubble, likely starting some sort of clean up to clear the space, and Hermione wasn't sure what to do, what to say, who to speak to.

"You the owner?" A man asked, and she nodded in reply. "Shit," He said loudly, "This is…Incredible."

"Yes, that's what everyone says." She deadpanned.

"Well, we uh—we're starting the clean up. Your possessions will be returned to you, of course, assuming everything isn't—you know, destroyed." She had to stop herself from scowling.

"Yes, thank you." She said curtly, crossing her arms over her middle. There probably wouldn't be much of anything left—maybe they could find her car keys, or maybe a dresser or something had survived, but she wasn't keeping her hopes up. Maybe—

She froze. Crookshanks. She had pushed him out the back door and forgot, he was probably so scared by the collapse of the house he ran off. Or maybe he got hit by a stray brick and he was dead, maybe they would find him smushed by the rubble and she would—

She heard someone clear their throat, and she turned her attention to the elderly woman standing at the front gate of the house next to hers. "Nasty business." She commented, jerking her head toward Hermione's house.

"Um—" Hermione sputtered, "Yes, it is."

"You're Hermione Granger, aren't you?" She asked, "The Grangers' daughter."

"Yes." She affirmed. "You're Mrs. McGonagall?" She barely remembered her, the old woman often kept to herself but was kind when they did speak to her. She was a bit strict, if Hermione remembered correctly, a bit intimidating, but neither her parents nor Hermione ever had any problem with her in all the years they lived next door.

"Correct." She said. "I have something for you."

Hermione furrowed her brow, but followed her up the path to her house. She waited outside because she didn't feel right entering it, shifting her weight from foot to foot and nervously awaiting whatever it was she had. When McGonagall reappeared, it was with a bright orange fluffy cat in her arms and Hermione actually cried out in relief.

"Crookshanks!" She cried, reaching out and taking the cat from the older woman's arms. Hermione was nearly crying now, burying her face in Crooks fur and ignoring his squirming. "Oh god, I was so worried."

"He's a lovely cat," McGonagall said, sounding as if she was commenting on a test grade rather than a pet, but Hermione was happy for her approval just the same. "Very intelligent."

"I am so grateful, you have no idea." Hermione continued, especially happy when Crookshanks settled down in her arms and let her hold him.

"He was in a right state," The older woman said, "running around in my backyard after your house fell—when you went off in the ambulance I took him inside and figured I would get him back to you."

"Thank you." She said, feeling like she couldn't say it enough. "Thank you so much."

She smiled, and her eyes fixed over Hermione's shoulder. "Is this a friend of yours?" She asked pleasantly, and Hermione turned to see who she was referring to.

She froze.

"Hello Hermione," He said, nonchalant and easy, his voice dark and low and real. He had stopped midway up the path, and he looked just as she remembered, but different somehow because he was here, and he was real, and he was smiling.

Crookshanks was still in her arms and McGonagall patiently waited for an introduction. Hermione swallowed the terror in her throat and steadfastly ignored the excitement that made her fingers twitch against Crookshanks fur.

"Hello Tom."

—

 **BEFORE YOU GET MAD!**

 **yes I'm wrapping up damned here, I'm marking it as complete because no more chapters will be added to this story bUT the story** _ **isn't over**_ **I want to write a sequel for it!**

 **SO CHILL DONT HATE ME PLEASE ITS NOT OVER YET hahahahha**

 **The only reason I'm ending it here and not just continuing on this story is because the whole reason for writing this story was I wanted to write horror and play around with the horror genre a little bit since i had never done that before, not to this extent at least, but from this point on its not gonna be so much horror as it is drama kind of like the other stuff i write? so it didn't make sense to me to continue this story** _ **here**_ **, where my sole purpose for writing it had been to write horror.**

 **So the story isn't over yet, but damned is. The next will focus more on the consequences of Tom's return, the development of Tom and Hermione's relationship, there will be more involvement of other demons (coughcoughbellacough) as well as a bit more of dumbledore and basically the shenanigans of the devil/antichrist coming to earth, which just….it just didn't fit in to this story at all. It had to be its own thing.**

 **I am not sure** _ **when**_ **I'll write the sequel? ? ? I do want to finish school days and lurking and dig my heels into bleed for me a little bit before i write the sequel but depending on when inspiration strikes who knows i may post it sooner? ? ? not sure! ! ! we'll see! ! hahaha if you're interested in reading teh sequel at all you can put me on author alert or if you want to follow me on tumblr (if you have one) you can? I don't always post on there when I update but I'll make sure to announce when I write the sequel or w/e. my username is meowmerson ! ! ! so feel free to follow me there or on here and i'll post when i do it w/e**

 **ANYWAY I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS. I had so much fun writing this. I love horror stuff and getting the chance to write horror was really awesome, I definitely want to write more horror in the future, maybe horror where i don't romanticize the literal devil? ? like idk that might be a good idea like not to do again lmao**

 **But I'm ramblingggg as per usualllll I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH. the support on this story was phenomenal. I'm sorry i ditched it for a while (life is craaaazy y'all) but I'm happy to get back to it, and i'll be happy to start on the sequel in the future, and hopefully some of you might be interested to read that too! It won't be quite as fucked up adn creepy as this one….tho….it still will be a little bit….because I'm me.**

 **LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! I'll see you all soon! also i didnt proofread i might proofread later and upload something without typos but like its 2 AM bro i cant do it rn lmaooooooooooooo OK BYE FO RREAL I LOVE YOU PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT U THINK ADN IF UR INTERESTED IN A SEQUEL**


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